By thrones of crowned kings
by Melitot Proud Eye
Summary: XI. PART 11 OF THE SERIES 'By watchfires and thrones of crowned kings'... - "Thor, you need a wife." "I already have a wife" he says. "And a husband, and a brother and a friend. And it's you. I don't need strangers in my bed." - Duties and desires of two kings. (With a dash of intrigue and dangerous beasts) - [Thunderfrost]
1. Duties

**Notes:** eleventh and longest part of my current series, titled _By watchfires and thrones of crowned kings_; should be almost 50K when I'm done translating. It will have more sense if read after the previous parts :)  
This is the result of being _very_ fascinated by Jotun!Loki + loving the way fandom has shaped him + reading a lot of fics with him and Thor and mixing it all in my own 'verse. I owe most Jotun words to amberfox17's beautiful stories (_Wild ambition fortune's ice prefers_) and the rest to online Norse dictionaries; other authors made me love Jarnsaxa as a character and probably inspired me in some way or another, but after hundreds of read fics it becomes impossible to tell, lol. The rest is all on the Marvel movies and, I like to think, my own imagination. I really hope you like this!

**TAGS: **Loki Has Issues, Loki Feels, Thor Feels, Smart Thor, Intrigue, Post Avengers Asgard, Politics, Established Relationship, Requited Love, Jealousy, Warning: Loki, Jötunheimr | Jotunheim, Jotun Biology, Mythological Beasts, Marriage Proposal, Hermaphrodites, Jötunn Loki, Loki is mostly blue here, Kilts, Mating Rituals, Body Paint, Shapeshifter Loki, Parent Frigga, Mpreg, Kind of since we're talking about hermaphrodites, Mating Cycles/In Heat, again kind of, Reincarnation themes.

Since English is not my first language there could be mistakes, I'm sorry if any got past my editing. Feel free to point them out, I'll correct them right away~

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**I**  
**Duties**

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**T**hey're kings, now, and every king needs a queen. It's always been that way. Alliances, progeny, private counsel: since the dawn of history every great leader has been supported by a great wife.

Loki knows it's only a matter of time. He knows that Thor doesn't realise it, but that Asgard – despite the incredible flexibility it has shown so far – is waiting for it. He knows that the great families of the Nine Realms are educating and dolling their daughters up as if they were already queens, waiting for the opening of the _auction_. And trying to play dirty at parties, maybe. (Little morsels on display everywhere, buzzing around like flies.)

The very thought makes him bare his teeth. He looks at Thor and condensing frost spills from his lungs. He thinks of their nights together and the floor freezes under his feet, breaking the soles of his boots. He envisions what he could give Thor, he and _he alone_, and he wants to scream. It's not fair.  
But he keeps quiet and calm, because Thor is not the only one who has grown. Kings possess many things. They need to give up just as many, if they want to honor their commitments.

Therefore, it will be Loki son of Laufey the one who will plan their weddings; Loki, who will find the right bride for Thor–and prepare the nuptial bed.

Not _their_ bed, though. Never theirs. (The nest he has chosen, padded and shaped hour after hour, desire after desire, like some poor dumb Jötun in heat). Those cows will die before puttingfootinit-

_Calm down_, he tells himself, rubbing his forehead. _You won't grow apart because of this._

No one can overcome as many difficulties as they did, love each other in spite of everything like they do, and be separated by a wife of convenience, a walking belly. He just has to make sure that the bride isn't too beautiful; that she doesn't have too strong-willed a character, doesn't possess high-level magic and culture ‒ better if she completely lacks magic, yes. That she is unable to entertain her husband with witty remarks. And maybe unable to conceive, too...

Oh, Norns.

Loki closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath.

He has more discipline than this, he tells himself; he's been able to triumph over circumstances that were much more dramatic, he has managed Thor and Odin and Heimdall and even a bit Frigga daughter of Fyörgynn. He can do this, because he has to. Asgard would never accept a Jötun queen, although, incredibly, it tolerates a Jötun _ally_.

And if it's not nuances always ruining his life...

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'Walking belly' is an expression I read in a biography, as a quote from Napoleone Bonaparte. After Joséphine the emperor wanted just a political wife, a woman who'd give him an heir, influent connections and nothing more. I hope the translation doesn't sound too strange.

Chapters will get longer, I swear!


	2. Desires

**Notes:** So sorry about the long wait! It wasn't my intention to delay the new chapter for so long, but stuff kept putting me off translating and writing in general. I hope to be quicker with the next :)  
This chapter was written when I was a bit crazy with Shakespeare and I think it shows, lol. Made Thor read and think poetry... only for a few minutes, but still. I hope you won't be scarred for life. In my defense, this is a future!Thor who has matured and refined a bit.  
As always, this is a translation and, while proofread at the best of my ability, it could still contain mistakes. Feel free to point them out, so that I can correct them!  
Enjoy

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**Desires**

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When he finds out, Thor lives a moment of utter disbelief. There must be another explanation.

Then the cautious air and dissonances surrounding Loki dispel all doubts. Thor knows him too well to be deceived: it's all true, sweet cradles of the Norns. So, without wasting time, he takes the offensive.

He doesn't confront Loki because that would be useless. To his stubborn, masochistic love he'd rather show what he wants from the future (what they _can_ have) with deeds; he believes he has the perfect plan, too. At the first big celebration of the kingdom, he invites to cheer up his table Alfheim's rulers, his old friend Freyr and his wife Gerð who – incidentally – is a Jötun. To avoid brotherly defections to Jötunheim's tundras he keeps everything discreet until the last minute, and with unexpected success.

The people congregate at the announcement, the Bifröst opens. The kingdom shines in all its splendor.

Loki turns to look at him as if he'd like to poison the cider in his horn, then smiles in the face of bad luck. Thor pretends not to understand. The message will come through.

It's the guests who open the dances after the banquet's last toast, since the Allfather lacks a queen and his mother feels poorly.

"Music!"

They make a harmonious couple. Freyr is witty, sensual, a synesthesia of lute and sword. Gerð daughter of Gymir, the fairest of all _maidens_, is sinuous, soft and androgynous; dressed in silver silks, a crown of mistletoe in her hair, she dances with the tinkle of ice in her feet. At times her resemblance to Loki is confusing. The sight of her son Fjolnir – woods in the weave of his spirit and snow on his skin – of impatience.

Asgard holds its breath. Thor stares and dreams.

And plots.

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Then the celebrations have ended and the city is still, drunk with joy and opulence. The foreigners have departed, lights are estinguished on empty tables; Thor sits on his throne with Huginn and a book, observing the empty hall as it slumbers under the reflections of the torches. It's a tremulous light, as intimate as only twilight can be. (And a true desire.)

He'd like to have his love beside him. But they'll have to go to war again before finding each other in peace. With a sigh, Thor closes his book around a finger and leans his head against the backrest, ears full of distant voices.

_When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see_ , he thinks. Words he cannot recite, because he's no poet. _W_ _hen I sleep, in dreams they look on thee, and darkly bright are bright in dark directed..._ _All days are nights to see till I see thee, and nights bright days when dreams do show thee me. _

While the leather spine of the volume creaks, another verse comes to his mind.

_For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move, and I am still with them and they with thee._

He smiles sadly. Loki, chain and consolation. The only one who truly understands, though he doesn't always accept what he finds. How could Thor ever want a life in which they're not joined?

Only a few moments after he has thought that, the core of his desire appears. His mood brightens up immediately – and if he's not a fool for that.

"There you are," he says, smiling.

"Here I am."

Loki doesn't seem to be on the warpath.

"Tired?" Thor puts the book next to himself, on the throne, and moves Huginn on the right armrest while pointing to the other. "Come here."

Loki tries to read his face without being noticed; he joins him with confidence and sits down. Thor encircles his back with one arm, moving him closer, and possessively grabs his leg with the excuse of resting an elbow.

Loki remains motionless, rigid. Then, slowly, he relaxes. He turns and crosses his right leg over Thor's left one, with all the familiarity of twenty centuries together.

They stay like that, shoulder to shoulder, listening to each other live until Thor remarks that it has been a busy week.

"I couldn't have said it better." Five fingers drumming on a bony knee. "I'd prefer a warning next time you invite such important guests, I might already have unavoidable commitments in Jötunheim. And when I'm not the one planning things, foreign retinues talk about Asgard's lack of preparation."

"Same old pompous Loki."

Same old evasive Loki. Thor makes himself comfortable. In the distance, a gushing of fountains can be heard.

"Gerð is magnificent, isn't she?"

"If you want to call her so."

The undercurrent of spite is palpable.

"And Freyr is always fit."

"You should sleep, you know" Loki says, dry. "Digest all the food you have inhaled. Get strange people out of your head. "

Thor bursts into laughter and hugs him a bit tighter.

"It's curious to hear this observation coming from you. You know, a birdie told me," on the throne's other armrest Huginn crows a laugh, shaking his wings, "that you've visited the royal cousins of Vanaheim."

It's only thanks to centuries of practice that he feels Loki tense.

He goes on, conversational. "At first I thought, wow, it's nice that my beloved still feels like taking care of our diplomacy. The Norns know I don't have much stomach for that discipline. But then, the birdie added that there had been talk of dowries... and unofficial gifts to Linden's eldest daughter. This, as you might imagine, made me a bit suspicious."

"Thor..."

"I asked myself: why would Loki woo a maiden princess when we have no princes to marry off and he already has me?"

"Thor" Loki says, more uncomfortable.

"Then I found out that there had been a proposal too, and that it extended to the _twin_ sister as well."

Loki stares at him, face drawn – understanding written in every line. "Is that _why_ you invited those clowns here?"

"I went to the parents, asked about this, said that there had been a misunderstanding–»

"Listen…"

"And I kindly sent them all to–"

Loki is horrified. He stares at him with his mouth open. "Tell me you didn't."

"Why? I was flawlessly polite, despite facing people who wanted to con me. Or be conned. I spoke of a promise–"

"_Listen_." Loki seems undecided between begging for forgiveness and strangling him. He opens his hands, flexing his fingers. "You can't do that. This is serious business, Thor – a political matter which everyone expects to see proceed by a certain script."

"Ah. And is that script up to you?"

He hesitates. "Knowing you're not gifted..."

"Feel free to say just 'inclined'."

"Personal inclinations have little to do with the art of government."

In any other context Thor would laugh himself to tears. _Oh, Loki, irony truly has it in for you_. However, the ghost of his first bewilderment returns.

"Two sisters?" he says, raising his eyebrows. "Really?"

"It was our mother who recommended them" Loki points out, on the defensive.

"Our–" It's impossible."You're joking" Thor groans, hiding his face in one hand and rubbing vigorously. "She cannot agree with this thing."

Thinking it goes unnoticed, Loki has the guts to roll his eyes to the ceiling. "No, Thor. I meant that I started an innocent conversation with her and led the discussion on the best catches available on the market. Lindel's daughters were on the list. And, after a careful examination, suitable too."

Thor straightens only to correct that awful euphemism. "_Innocent_. Please, she knows you."

"She must have thought that I was trying to marry off one of our vassals."

"To a princess?"

A shrug. "Why not?"

"Stop smiling like that," he warns.

"Like what?"

"As if we were talking about the weather!" Thor straightens upon Hliðskjálf, while Loki casts a sidelong glance at him, still on his perch. He seems an oracle's statue, distant and of highly suspect judgment.

"Thor, you need a wife."

"I already have a wife," he says. "And a husband, and a brother and a friend. And it's you." He leans toward Loki's neck, speaking against his jaw, calm but relentless. "I don't need strangers in my bed."

Loki's eyes blaze; in a flash, a veil drops and Thor has a Jöotun before him.

"I am a frost giant" blue lips hiss, emitting cold steam. "And the king of a kingdom that your father and his men hated for centuries. Why won't you understand? Alright, if we have to talk about it rather than imply, let's talk." He spreads his arms despite Thor's bulk and the throne. "Go on, explain your strategy. Surprise me. And it will have to be very good to convince everyone, because this is not Álfheim! Don't think for a moment that they'll accept me on your throne with joy and jubilation."

"They will, or they'll find themselves without a royal family" Thor says. "Listen carefully to what I say, my love: I'm not going to marry a daughter of Lindel, nor a daughter of Sól, nor anyone else's daughter. I will marry you, or not marry at all." He smiles, on the edge between sweetness and coup de grace. "This is not another early coronation. I have pondered on it, and I know what I'm doing."

He receives a sarcastic grimace.

"Or you don't love me anymore?"

Loki pales. "Never that."

"Then perhaps we're not enough for each other anymore?"

Loki closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and, for a moment, all his pain is obvious. Blue, he seems even sadder. "You'd be more than enough for me to Ragnarök and beyond, you dumb ox. It's Asgard that won't find us sufficient."

"All nonsense." Thor tightens the hold on his waist, nose pressing against his neck. "Asgard was awed by Gerð, Loki. And do you think they didn't see what I wanted them to see by inviting her here – that they have someone like her among them? Someone intelligent, diplomatic and just ready to–"

"I'm not as attractive as Gerð. I'm not–"

"You're a lot more than that." He caresses Loki's cheek, pale again. "And you're the only one who doesn't want to understand it."

A sigh. "Thor, Asgard needs a queen like your mother. Even with all the goodwill in the world, I couldn't–»

"I have decided" he says, kissing him. "Take it or leave it."

While Loki pulls a face, torn between anger and desire, Thor gets up and leaves. With Huginn's eye he sees Loki lean back and rub his face, eyes bright, a stubborn expression on his features.

Then he opts not to see any more.

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Verses are taken from Shakespeare's Sonnets XLIII and XLVII.  
Comments=❤


	3. Growing apart is half-leaving each other

**Notes:** Sorry for the long wait! Got caught up in a billion things and had little energy for translating.  
As always, I re-read this a few times to catch typos and mistakes but had no beta to help. Please let me know if you see errors of any kind :)  
What follows: attempts at world-building and at writing exasperated king!Thor.

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**Growing apart is half-leaving each other**

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**I**

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With the savage mountains and perennial snow, Jötunheim would have been loved by his friends of yore. Thor sees – as if he had them before his very eyes – Stark, Rogers and Barton challenging the slopes, Banner losing himself in the study of every oddity, lady Natasha discovering secrets with a simple glance.

But it's been so long since they lived that, sometimes, the details of their faces blur; their voices get confused in the white noise of a waterfall. And he is alone.

The friends he still has have no inclination for cold weather. And, elsewhere, the royal chamber's doors are closed in tribute to the stupidest obstinacy. He sighs, looking around: if nothing else, Utgarð is peaceful. (Indifferent in her derision.)

He would have the Avengers at his side, now. They'd be able to complicate matters to the point of simplifying them, he's sure of it.

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**II**

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The Kings' Hall is a long, bare space, almost as tall as a mountain, and dimly lit. It has colonnades and massive walls devoid of openings except at the deep end, where an oculus projects a beam of light on the petitioners. Today it's a silent cavern as well, because no hearings are being held; Loki's body traces an indolent curve among the spires of the throne.

He' not sleeping. Thor knows he's been noticed the very moment he passed the great archway.

While he approaches he reflects on the situation, in search of a strategy that won't end in their same old butting of heads. Sovereign, diplomat, successfully Allfather for nine worlds, yes – but young still, and some things will never cease to rouse his worst instincts. Thor's true self is wind and storm: a blizzard constrained under a fragile veneer of civility. Loki and he resemble each other a lot more than most believe.

And together, however, they reach the balance to shape another way, far from violence and solitude. It's the reason why Thor needs Loki. It's the reason why Loki needs Thor. Apart, they would go back to self-destruction.

He stops near the high-backed seat, neither in front of it nor next to it. In acknowledgment of his kingdom's climate and traditions, Loki is Jötun and barely clothed: above his _kjálta_ sewn from black fur, he's wearing only two golden bracelets which twist up to his shoulders, and a ruby as dark as blood in the middle of his forehead. Everything else is magnificent, naked skin.

When Gungnir's shaft presses against the beaten ice, staking out that middle earth, a web of white cracks comes to life and grows. Loki lifts an eyelid.

"Is this how it will be, from now on?" Thor asks.

"What are you talking about?" His air of perplexity is almost convincing.

"I'm talking about your doors."

"Oh, those."

"And of the fact that you don't come looking for me anymore, nor are found when I am looking for you."

Loki twiddles two fingers in the air, vague, barely lifting them from the armrest. "I'm a king in search of a wife, with many guests in his home; I can't give the wrong impression to possible buyers. The permafrost is small and the beasts talk." He smiles. "You should know that better than me, Allfather, considering the waiting line at _your_ doors."

Thor tightens his hands in fists. "I'm serious."

"But I am, too." Loki stares at him, nonchalant. This is Silvertongue, his least appreciable personality – and sadly one of the most obstinate as well. "Consider the new discretion of my halls a favour from a king to his honoured guest, soon-to-be engaged."

Thor pounces on the throne in two strides.

His hands slam on the armrests and grasp the carved ice, cracking it. Forced to pull his elbows in, Loki hesitates, then grows stiff and stares into nothing.

"You may delude yourself thinking this plan will bear fruit if you persist enough. But it won't happen, I assure you. Now listen – look at me."

Slowly, Loki turns his head. The red of his eyes is so intense it's almost black. He seems cut out of stone, yet Thor can hear the mad beating of his heart even without touching him.

"I'll tell you again: either you or _no one else_. I'll remain alone, if you don't marry me."

"Doesn't that sound like coercion to you?" Loki says.

"And your closed doors, your coldness are not?"

"Maybe I don't want you anymore."

"Or maybe you're not a good enough liar anymore."

Thor waits, breath laboured. In the impetus of his movement, his cloak has slid over his side and now lies against one of his thighs; it continues down, against Loki's left calf, amassed around his ankle, almost twisted. In another situation it would be funny: not even Thor's clothes can do without Loki. For an instant, that ankle betrays something. It shivers, and Thor glimpses a breach.

"Step back."

"Decide, once and for all–"

"I've already _decided_."

And a tug frees the fabric of Thor's cloak, pushing him abruptly back. Thor recovers right away, but doesn't go back to the offensive; all he does is to stare at Loki with narrowed eyes. Then he passes a hand over his face and retrieves Gungnir.

"Why do you have to be like this? Why persist in this–in _this_–"

"You're a king about to take wife, Thor. As I am."

Oh, to Hel with everything. If it goes on like this he'll go mad. He needs a breakthrough plan, now.

"Keep on dreaming" he says, slowly, and departs in a golden blaze.

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**III**

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_Repetita iuvant_, the Ancients of Midgard said. Repeating things helps: they sediment. And Loki has never had to apply that rule as much as with Thor, from childhood to maturity. Maturity...

A glimmer of disconsolate irony must show on his face, because Thor's eyes flash.

"If you want to resume that conversation" he says, bent on some stone tablets, "you may as well go. I'm thinking."

Ha ha. "On how to seem more of an idiot?"

"Watch it, Loki."

Loki sits in front of him and crosses his legs. "It's my library. I have the right to spend the afternoon here, if I so desire."

"But not to insult me. Don't you have any meetings, _august cousin_?"

"This is the most important one, Allfather."

Thor stares at him for three moments. Then he drops the tablet he's holding on the others, leaves the desk and goes to plant himself in front of a window, between two shelfs of ice, breath rising in long puffs. Loki doesn't deny that, in the entirety of this deplorable matter, seeing episodes of Thor's old impulsiveness is a pleasure. Dressed in the pelts required by Jötunheim's climate, he looks like a bear ready for the strike; he awakens in Loki savage instincts of hunt, blood and couplings.

It must be cubs season.

Loki tightens his fingers on the armrests of the chair he occupies. "And I have a right to say what I think. Might we consider this a private negotiation?"

Thor turns around slowly. "Do you have new propositions?"

"If by propositions you mean 'marriage prospects'–"

"_No_."

Loki shrugs, drawing upon centuries of tested pretence to appear casual. "I'll read the list anyway... you never now. Let's see, there's the niece of–"

Thor comes back and grabs a random stack of tablets. "Enjoy yourself, because it will be a monologue."

"Where are you going?"

"I have to consult these, _your majesty_. After that, I'll relieve you of the inconvenience of an unwelcome guest."

"It's not permitted to take ancient documents out of this hall" Loki answers, for lack of anything else.

"I'm sure you'll make an exception. I need to think while I read, and here blows a distracting air."

Loki can recognize a lost battle. He swallows his instinctive reply (and the desire to let everything go, once and for all, to bring peace and passion back with two simple words – better, two moves), he gets up and watches him go, shaking with repressed energy.

Thor reaches the ice gate and exits, slaming it behind his back.

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**IV**

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From the battlements, the city's arena looks inviting: a wide, white square dotted with fighters, be they veterans or new promises ready for a challenge. Pure movement, blood pounding in the ears. Mjölnir's familiar weight in the fist. No thought, only instinct.

Except for the fact that it's not so simple; Thor is no common warrior, and that field is more of a slaughterhouse than a place for civil confrontations. Picturing the consequences of his victory (or defeat, because distraction is an insidious enemy) in such a situation is already giving him a headache.

Therefore, he prefers to stay put and observe. He turns his back to the rampart and rests his elbows on it, basking in Jötunheim's modest sun. His thoughts spiral down into pessimism quite soon. Another day, no progress, no ideas. Time is running out and he knows he's approaching the moment when, willing or not, he'll have to take stock of his future's prospects.

Steps in a familiar cadence distract him.

"Why the long face, sire?"

Surprised, he turns his head to the right. "You, here?"

"In flesh and bones" Sif smiles, black hair rippling against the mottled pelts of her cape. She must have climbed through the north tower. "Talk of shipwreck reached us... and I drew the short stick. You shouldn't come here without us anyway."

Thor walks toward her, feeling cheered up. "If I remember well" he says, hugging her "it was the four of you who disdained winter endevours."

"We know quite well on which glacier you like to _ski_, Allfather." Sif scrunches up her nose with a mixture of horror and amusement. "You wouldn't be of great company even if we made an effort to come."

Thor lets out a half-laugh despite himself. Together, they occupy the spot where he was idling alone and stay against the rampart, attention fixed on the warriors training with ice and sword until Sif sighs.

"Really, Thor, why the long face?"

"Do you need to ask?" he answers, letting an arm drop with an uncharacteristic, if justified, lack of manners.

Sif leans forward to see him better, playing with the locket that contains a lock of her son's hair.

"I find it difficult to believe you can't manage to convince him. You always did it... even for the stupidest ventures."

"Perhaps because he found it convenient. And thank you for the support. It's good to know that everyone considers me an idiot because I want to marry him."

"Don't say that, Thor" she protests. "You know I didn't mean it that way!"

"Truly?" Then he sees her face and lets it go with another gesture. "Well, everyone has a right to a personal opinion. The problem is, there's Loki too in the number of people who consider me an idiot."

"Bullshit" Sif says, exasperated. "Loki loves you. And please don't make me waste any more breath defending him."

"I know he loves me. The fact is that he doesn't think highly of my intelligence. He believes I'm talking ideals."

Silence descends upon them, interrupted only by distant shouts of encouragement and gusts of wind that sweep Utgarð's every nook, dusting the air with old snow.

"What will you do?" Sif asks.

Thor exhales a cloud of moisture. "At the moment I have half the intention of grabbing him, tying him up and take him home dangling from Gungnir. Like a bilgesnipe ready for the split."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not? Kidnapping princesses to forge impossible alliances is a long, honoured tradition, my friend."

This time her smirk shows. "I advise you not to let him catch that."

Sif deals him a clap on the arm, barely perceptible through the furs.

"Come on, my king. If you'd like to return to Asgard, I'll escort you."

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	4. INTERLUDE - Divergence

**Note:** Just a short little thing I added back then (when I was still writing this) to tie things.  
Also, yes, I had Fandral and Sif marry, probably because I'm a sadistic matchmaker :3 oh come on, you have to admit that would be one hell of a pairing to develop! Which I, uh, didn't. Sorry.

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**INTERLUDE**

Divergence

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Thor Odinson wasn't born to live alone.

Outgoing, cheerful, since childhood he has sought the company of kindred spirits with whom to share his life, to whom to give the best of himself, and to ask for the advice a prince shouldn't in truth defer to anyone. Being with other people is a joy, for him. He has few sincere friends as pillars of his existence. Gifts of a serene character that not even politics could bend.

But things change, oh, how they change. New friends pass away, old friends move on. He's not the only one who has new responsibilities, today: Volstagg's children grow and require more and more their father's attention, Hogun has pupils to train, Fandral proudly travels the worlds with Sif and their first son. The have all become adults. The time for young men's foolery is gone.

And one cannot look for new bonds at liberty, with a crown on his head.

Thor could bear it all with grace, if his constant companion were _his_; if, in the neverending river of history, he had at his side the one who – indestructible sentinel untouched by the currents – holds all his past and his future.

But Loki bends his promises. He retreats.

Thor sighs, waiting patiently.

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Then, despite himself, he starts looking around.

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	5. Messages from the past

**Note:** There's **a reference to a plot point, here, that needs explaining**, since part V of this series hasn't been written yet [it grew on me after I started developing _By thrones_ and, uh, was left a bit behind. But I'm working on it, I swear].  
In part V, Loki comes back to Asgard and tries his damnedest to gain Thor's trust back. At one point, to try and know his (their) future, he recreates from scraps of information an ancient spell that supposedly draws on the Norns' magic, to use their Sight. The spell works, but something goes awry and he falls into a very deep sleep that lets him see a past beyond this universe's bounds: he sees how Thor and he and all the Nine Realms were in an previous life - that is to say, mostly like the gods of traditional Norse mythology. A bit like having an unexpected look in an alternate universe and seeing yourself live a life similar to a legend you always found both impossible and disheartening. He will call that spell the Norns' Sleep, and share its vision with Thor afterwards.  
That vision is what Thor is referring to, when he sees Jarnsaxa. I hope that wasn't too confusing :)

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**Messages from the past**

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**I**

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The Warriors Two and Sif are staring at him from the curve of a pillar. There would be nothing strange about that, if they were glaring – centuries of capers, the _matter with Thor_ – but today the mood is different. Uncertain. Anxious.

Loki's brow knits. He trusts his instinct, so he leaves his entourage to the golden expanse of the square and reaches the colonnade enclosing it, immersed in Asgard's reflections. Seeing him approach, the three exchange looks. The greetings he receives are a rumble of his name, a nod and a half-smile – the only genuine reaction comes from Hallbjorn, the ruddy little monster pressed against Sif's hip: he starts making faces.

"How did it go in Álfheim?" Loki asks.

They have just come back from a diplomatic trip. The journey Thor and _he_ should have made, alone.

"It went well" Volstagg answers, jovial.

Loki scrutinizes him. "Thor is still there?"

"Yes" Sif replies, very busy with readjusting her son's weight. "I'm sorry, Loki-King, you won't find anyone but your mother upon Hliðskjálf."

"Oh."

_That means I'll greet just her_, he wants to add. But he hasn't seen Thor for a month and those three are keeping something from him, he's sure of it. While he's ruminating on that, the answer goes lost.

"Gaaa" Sif's brat meows, preparing for a screaming session worth of a little Jötun.

The Norns take him. With a last suspicious look, Loki bids them goodbye and goes on his way.

.

.

.

**II**

.

Járnsaxa is tall, cerulean and strong. He's got a proud profile, with two sinuous, _kaunan_-like horns; black hair gathered in copper tiaras, Vanir silks around his neck. And Thor would have never thought of meeting him here, a reassuring bulwark in a cosmopolitan world.

He recognizes him immediately, although he's never him in this life. He admires his elegant bearing and tastes the Norn's Sleep once again, with all its _were_s and _might-be-again_s. Where has Járnsaxa been, all these centuries?

How could they not meet– a guilty question – before now?

The Jötun sees him and comes near for a bow, crossing the foreign court. He's wearing pelts of white fox. He smiles and, despite himself, Thor sees him in another place, in another time, with two children in him arms.

"Alfather."

Thor feels the weave of the new present unravel, curving toward the old destiny.

.


	6. Chance, feelings and their ramifications

**Note:** Loki and Jarnsaxa meet for the first time. Thor's caught in the crossfire.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

.

.

.

**Chance, feelings and their ramifications**

.

.

**I**

.

He's not big, for a Jötun: barely a span taller than him. Thor wonders if he, too, is considered an anomaly among his people (and he's not thinking of Loki, increasingly distant, increasingly contrary Loki). Járnsaxa has beautiful proportions, of course, with fine bones and muscles that are not too pronounced; his chest bears marks so light they seem the most exquisite of niellos.

And Thor must stop thinking about it. Damnit.

"Don't you think so, Allfather?"

He comes back to reality with a start. "What?"

Járnsaxa smiles, half-amused and half-flattered. "It appears this is a blessed day."

He raises his head and looks at the clear, bright sky, beautiful throat arching.

.

That night Thor dreams of him, and dreams of holding Magni in his arms.

If only he...

.

.

**II**

.

He's done it. He shouldn't have, but he has: he's extended the diplomatic trip by three days, until the summer solstice. And the reason is everything but politics. What is happening?

(_You know what, you know._)

"You seem pensive, Allfather. The sacred heart of our library leaves you unsatisfied?"

Járnsaxa leans over the table and browses the stamped spines of the codices. His eyes are carnation-red, darker than the norm, and when they return on him they're smiling.

"Or maybe they push you into meditation?"

Thor tears his gaze from Járnsaxa's chest. Then he shakes his head and rests against the high-backed chair he's occupying.

"Rather, they make me miss the sun beating upon your beautiful arena" he laughs, because he's incapable of feeling ill at ease for long. Unless Loki is involved in some way. "I'll have tu entrust myself to your experience here, my friend."

If the familiarity bothers Járnsaxa, it's difficult to say.

.

.

**III**

.

It doesn't take long before Loki knows, and even less before he makes an appearance.

Thor is not surprised by the first – his torment has always had eyes and ears everywhere; by the second, however, he is. And he doesn't know if he should either despair of the animosity that separates them, driving him now to surprise, or be heartened by the fact that Loki has come to mark his territory. If this is what he's come to do.

He could be here to find out how infamous Járnsaxa, scholarly jewel of Álfheim is made.

Or to show his scowling, dear, dear face. While he majestically moves toward them, Thor observes him, feeling familiarity and passion rise like a tide of red pain.

_Marry me_, he's asked him, again and again. Ordered him. Begged him.

And now that he was starting to believe it impossible, obviously, Loki decides to come muddy the waters.

A half-smile finds its way on Thor's mouth, uncaring of his worries.

.

.

**IV**

.

The First Scholar of Ýdalir's Academy is slender and, beyond clothes reminiscent of Jötunheim, possessed of a haughty bearing. In addition to a lot of bare skin.

When Thor – reluctant – introduces them to each other and starts a conversation, Járnsaxa smiles; titles and pleasantries must be only vexations to Freyr's informal court. In that moment, incidentally, Loki notices that Járnsaxa has a whore's mouth as well. Too full and dark, with an inviting smile.

He stares at him.

Thor looks guilty. Something in Loki's chest flares up with anger and pain.

"It's an honour to meet you, Loki-King. I've heard a lot about you."

"Of course you did."

He can guess in what terms. Opposition doesn't die when the claimant wears the crown; if anything, it becomes even more bent on obstructing, plotting, digging – and in his past there are many interesting lodes.

Járnsaxa's face is perfect, it doesn't let anything show. But Loki has seen enough.

_You little upstart_, he thinks, with Thor's golden presence sliding under his skin. _You'll regret ever having being born._

In that moment everything else, all reflections and months' plans vanish into thin air.

.

.

**V**

.

Loki is as rigid and sharp as a glacier. For an instant Thor believes he'll run Járnsaxa through with a hand; he knows that look: they're dancing on the edge of a blade.

For his part Járnsaxa seems calm, but that means little, since he's a seasoned courtier. And, sure enough, right afterwards the situation starts to get out of control.

"I don't think I ever saw you at court, _subject_" Loki says.

Járnsaxa bows.

"Your Majesty." The lights of the hall gleam on his magnificent back and Thor doesn't believe the move to be accidental even for a second. "That's because I don't belong to Jötunheim's crown anymore. Since my maturity's day, I sit at the table of cultured Freyr."

"Ah, I see. A handmaid of Gerð's."

Járnsaxa's teeth are very white and pointed. "You flatter me, but I'm not so important. Just a humble scholar."

_And what a scholar_, Thor thinks. He's not afraid of Loki.

(A terrible idea.)

.


	7. Strategy of pain

**Notes:** Sorry for the wait! Got tangled up in a billion engagements.

Quick notes:  
\- Þrymheimr (in ancient Norse "house of thunder"), Glæsisvellir and the fortified city of Utgard were important places in Jötunheim, all remembered by ancient texts; but you probably knew that already;  
\- cherlinden (cherry+linden) trees, cetrix (bird) and Jarnsaxa's patronymic were invented by me. I looked everywhere to see if a patronymic existed, but mythology has no information on his ancestry;  
\- in my headcanon, Jarnsaxa was born almost as little as Loki (he's taller though) and possesses some magic powers;  
\- ...yes, I like to give Gerð a slightly hysterical voice XD  
Alright, I'll let you continue to Thor's seduction. Haha, a rose, Jarn? Really? Hope you like it. Please point out mistakes, if you see any :)  
And don't be too hard on Thor... he's lonely, angry at Loki and a little confused.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooo

.

.

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**Strategy of pain**

.

.

.

**I**

.

"You're still meditating" Járnsaxa exclaims, playful, when he finds him on the terrace.

Thor is at the Royal Library. Seated on the monumental balaustrade, one finger inside the book he should be reading, he's enjoying the splendour of the blooming cherlinden trees, the majestic behemoths of Ýdalir's park. All is white, green and blue. Serene.

He doesn't truly realize who has spoken until Járnsaxa continues.

"The epic poems and the veterans sang you an impetuous man. Now, however, I discover you're contemplative. Life really is generous with me."

Thor comes back to himself and turns, surprised. Then he shakes his head.

"The veterans admire me too much, by their kindness" he says, putting the volume away once and for all. "And the poems – forgive me, but they're often tall stories."

Járnsaxa's smile widens, and they end up laughing together.

"Ah, now I recognize you." He comes closer. "Resistant to frippery. Lover of all things earthly and of savage forces."

He leans one hip against the balaustrade of purple-veined, Vanir marble, crossing his arms. Today he's not wearing white fox: only transparent, saffron coloured silks and jewels made of coral – bracelets, necklaces, hair combs; tourmaline pearls blink from his ankles. Before so much red Thor cannot but remember another gem, a big ruby, and the forehead it often lightens in the greyness of Jötunheim. His cheer becomes forced.

"Maybe at one time, my friend. But I've changed. Rash princes inherit thrones overburdened with obligations."

Járnsaxa nods, never looking away from him.

"Gerð-Queen often complains of the same."

Silence falls. The library is quiet; voices of children come from the park.

"Something's troubling you" Járnsaxa remarks in the end.

His concern is pleasure and discomfort.

"I was just reflecting" Thor says, picking his book up again. At a gesture he adds: "Boring matters, I assure you. Government, laws, diplomacy. Destiny. The fact that I've been reigning for many, many summers but I haven't given a queen to my kingdom yet, nor an heir to my house."

"Those don't seem boring things to me" Járnsaxa states, smiling. "In fact, I'd be happy to know more."

Then he seems caught by a thought and, with dark cheeks, gives his attention to the cherlinden trees. The breeze brings to the terrace a very sweet smell, as intense as that of orange blossoms and lilies of the valley.

Even though they're navigating a treacherous subject, Thor finds himself curious.

"In Jötunheim children are a precious asset."

"The greatest one."

"And you, you don't have children?"

"No" Járnsaxa replies, melancholy, catching a petal in flight and putting it on his tongue. "There aren't many among the Álfar who are attracted to these frozen lands." He shows an arm, azure markings, blue skin. "Or ready to take on them."

Then he smiles, meeting Thor's eyes.

"They say, however, that the Aesir are a people of bold warriors with an inexplicable love for ice."

One of his endless legs peeks among the folds of the silk garb he's wearing. Thor swallows, looking away.

"It's true. Maybe you'll have more luck, if you visit Asgard."

"I hope so."

And Járnsaxa's voice, in spite of all legitimate suspicions, is honest.

.

.

.

**II**

.

It's a familiar sensation, resurrected from the past: the deepest sense of inadequacy; the certainty of coming second in everyone's eyes, but especially Thor's.

It awakens in him an anger that thirsts for blood.

And another thing: the latent, yet never forgotten awareness that Thor never does things by halves. If he'll take someone else at his side, he'll do it completely, in respect and love. Loki still remembers the solitude of his past – the loss of trust and the hard road traveled to conquer it back. Thor's silence.

The wait before closed doors.

Things he doesn't want to relive, that he didn't believe possible to risk again. And yet, because of the perverse obstinacy that poisons his character, he's coming back to them. He realizes it only now.

Loki spies Járnsaxa with eyes that see and reach anywhere. He imagines approaching him and opening that beautiful throat of his with sharp nails; the spurt of blue blood on Thor's cheeks.

He tightens his fists to stop himself.

He's not that person anymore, he tells himself. No more.

_But I won't let you take him, at any cost_, he thinks. _I'm sorry, I've changed my mind._

.

.

**III**

.

Thor loves his life's companion deeply, but the illusions of youth have left him a long time ago.

Loki remains Loki. And jealousy will always be his fiercest pleasure.

Even after centuries, at the possibility of abandonment, his poison begins to collect anew: Thor can perceive it in his words, see it in his eyes. An approaching disaster, whatever form it will decide to take.

But this time Thor isn't unprepared. If Loki still loves to nurture his anger to shower it upon others, he proves predictable; and so, manipulable. If he's manipulable, he can be guided in the right direction.

_I didn't take only my arm's strenght_, _from my father,_ Thor thinks.

He's different from the two of them, Loki and Odin, because plotting will never give him pleasure. However, he has concluded enough compromises in life to accept this one as inevitabile. Nothing but victory on this battlefield. He won't hesitate, nor let tenderness betray him.

(It worked once already.)

Maybe Loki had no idea of what he was doing to him by trying to put someone between them – how much Thor felt rejected, ridiculed.

Now he knows.

Thor looks within himself and is calm. His heart hasn't changed: it wants the same thing it always wanted.

If he falters... if sometimes he's confused... that's because every living creature is flawed.

.

.

.

**IV**

.

_"I want you, Thor Allfather."_

_He slips his fingers inside the folds of Thor's cloak and tightens his grip. This point of equilibrium helps him in the next movement: he sidesteps the high-backed chair's armrest, lifts one leg and climbs into Thor's lap._

_Thor inhales harshly and raises his hands. For an instant, Járnsaxa thinks he'll be hit._

_But Thor stays like that, agape, body undecided on what to do. Járnsaxa takes advantage of that to put his arms around the king's neck and sit higher. What he feels is _not _armour._

_Thor grabs his hips and Járnsaxa laughs, ecstatic, offering his mouth._

.

Járnsaxa Jønirson has been lucky, in life.

Born minuscule during a very bitter winter, just before the war that would devastate Jötunheim, he was destined to be exposed; but he was saved by his parents' love and his village's generosity. That handful of old people, consumed by the desire for new generations, looked after, protected and nourished him with the gentleness that only a small, weak infant among the Jötnar can require.

As an extremely curious child, he had farmers, fishermen and hunters as grandparents – and storytellers too, and a veteran of the wars during which Borr Búrison still crawled. He was well-fed with silverfish, mosses and legends.

Smart, as free as a white dragon.

And then, when it was the moment, his parents understood that living in a village would end up belittling him. They took everything they owned, put it in a bundle and guided him to what remained of the great cities – an act of brave sacrifice for which he'll always be grateful. Járnsaxa had the privilege of seeing Glæsisvellir, of living in Utgarð for a long time; of learning all that Thrymheimr could teach him. He met elven poets and discussed magic with Vanir stealthily passing by.

He met Gerð, the first mind in which resonated the same desire for modernity he felt. And lastly, during a fearless jaunt, together with Gerð he met Freyr.

Járnsaxa had just become an adult when the two of them decided to join in handfasting. Gerð asked him to follow them and abandon the wreck that was their homeland.

"Think of Álfheim's life, Álfheim's culture" he told Járnsaxa. "Bring your parents too, if you want. I don't want to make you feel guilty. But come away with us."

He accepted. Even when his parents decided not to leave the world that coursed through their blood and bones, he departed, with nostalgia in his heart.

Away, far from the poverty that youthful enthusiasm couldn't soften anymore.

Álfheim's opulent richness stunned him. It was, and still is, a world of green forests and prairies crossed by stone roads, warm, colourful, blinding. Even then, varicoloured birds screeched among its fronds, endless corollas bloomed along its vines. It had juicy fruits all around and fragrant herbs in abundance. Herds of plump animals. It had cities of incredibly high palaces, with workshops, libraries, statues and monuments, rowdy fairs. A magnificent, eternal caleidoscope.

The strain of constant heat is a small price to pay for all this, and can be mitigated with magic besides.

Not long after their arrival, Járnsaxa gained entrance as an apprentice to Ýdalir's Academy, envied by all worlds. His life has been very different from the life of many peers of his – of many old and young people of Jötunheim. Skill, perseverance, but lots of luck as well.

And this one, he thinks, is the greatest luck of all: Thor Odinson, as blond and beautiful as the sun, smiling at him while he talks about the things Járnsaxa loves best. Near enough to be touched.

Taken, won over.

Járnsaxa doesn't have a character inclined to laughter, because he absorbed much of Jötunheim's desolation during his youth. His smiles are more diplomatic than heartfelt; his praised charm is a façade for the court's fickle environment. But with Thor... with Thor, he feels a cheerfulness that he didn't believe could belong to him.

Járnsaxa has met Odin, and been afraid of him. His son is different. He's all bright, all warmth.

Even at the warning signs of a storm.

Perhaps it's destiny that Járnsaxa and Gerð both become queens.

.

But Thor, like all roses, doesn't lack thorns. They say a great man's flaws are great, and he has noteworthy ones. In love, Járnsaxa struggles to see them until the most forbidding reveals itself.

Thor has a shadow that doesn't follow the laws of the sun. It's the prince of whom nobody once knew, the phoenix that burnt Jötunheim to cinders to resurge and revive it: Loki, son of Laufey, the last king. The one who grew up next to another scepter and absorbed all its pomp, giving life, when no one saw it coming or desired it, back to his ancestors' throne.

Of Laufey he has the features, of Odin the piercing stare. He's the king master of ice and _Seiðr_.

And of Thor's heart.

Loki came first... Loki has millennia of shared history with him.

_What does it matter?_, Járnsaxa asks himself. _He's umiliating Thor. Renouncing him._

He furrows his brow, trying not to think of the way Loki looked at him when he found him with Thor. Of the fact that he showed up on Álfheim without notice.

_He doesn't deserve him._

He observes Odin's son, who is smiling with sadness in his eyes but still manages to recognize his desire; Thor, who isn't rejecting him.

Maybe it's not just a delusion. Maybe there really is hope, and Járnsaxa decides to keep on going.

.

"I hadn't seen you reading poetry since Fjolnir's birth. Are you in love?"

Under the arch leading to his private library, next to the green velvet curtain, is Gerð-Queen. He's wearing an amber tunic that veils the growing breasts but leaves the belly in view; from his silver diadem, a cascade of pearls and topaz falls into his hair. He's beautiful and refined, as always. And Járnsaxa should be thinking of him in female terms, now: that's their old homeland's custom for pregnant people, after all.

"Should I be worried by your silence?" Gerð asks with a sardonic smile, feet noiseless on the carpet.

"Maybe" he answers.

He gets up from the triclinium and, at a gesture, takes his place and book back. Gerð goes to the birds' cage.

"So our Jarn is in love" she sings almost under her breath. "And who's the lucky one?"

"I didn't say I am–"

"But interested?" Gerð says, chuckling. "Horny?"

Járnsaxa rubs a hand down his face, feeling himself darken. "I wish you weren't so vulgar..."

A light blue cetrix warbles.

"Oh, forgive me – _titillated_?"

He ends up laughing. "Yes. Oh, yes."

Gerð stops stroking a yellow crest and turns around."Unavoidable: he's an extraordinary man, and I'm not saying that just because he's Odin's son and sits upon the High Throne."

"You know him better than me."

"I wouldn't say. I've met him many times in the past years, of course, but we've never talked for long. Yes, he's good-looking. Yes, he's strong and clever, even if sometimes a bit naive. And he wears his father's crown well. I believe that very few people wouldn't do him", she says. Then, when they've finished giggling like little girls, her smile fades. "And that few have succeded. No adventurer whatsoever, in the past four centuries."

Járnsaxa grimaces, leafing through his codex as a pastime. Gerð seems alarmed by it.

"You... are not serious, are you?" she asks. "Do you know what they say about a possible marriage of his?"

He nods. Gerð takes a few steps toward the shelves overflowing with books, touches a spine of red leather, an emerald green one.

"I don't know what game they're playing, but..." she looks him right in the eye, with a tinkling of little pearls. "Jötunheim's king is powerful, Jarn. And possessive. Don't challenge him."

He ends up swallowing. He has the strenght of desire on his side, but he is and remains a scholar, not a warrior.

"I think it's too late."

Gerð turns on her heels, cursing under her breath. "What have you done?"

"I wasn't disrespectful to him, I swear it. I'm not suicidal. I just showed an interest in the man for whom he's been trying to find a wife."

"Oh, Norns."

"And Thor–"

At the first name, Gerð's eyes widen. "_Thor_? Norns help us! Do you have any idea–"

"I am a free Jötun" Járnsaxa says, a little offended by all that drama. "And he has given me his permiss–"

"You're mad" his queen shrieks. "Do you want to _destroy_ us?"

"Calm down" he implores, "think of the baby."

"Are you saying I'm hysterical?" Gerð hisses, pointing a finger at him. "Because even if I were, I'd have very good reasons."

Járnsaxa lifts his hands to placate her, then arches his eyebrows. "Where are you going?"

"To call Freya, for sanity's sake!"

And Gerð disappears, swallowed by the dark palace.

Járnsaxa leans into the seatback once again, tightens his jaw and goes back to his reading, trying to ignore the vague sense of anxiety left by Gerð's face, serious, speaking Loki's name.

.

That night he dozes off in the library. The shelves have many wings and many storeys, rich with recesses; a screened light and a blanket against the drafts are enough to feel the only creatures left in the world. He can always find some peace there – and hope for a romantic encounter.

It's not Thor who joins him, however. Járnsaxa is sleeping, forehead on his wrists and arms crossed on his knees, like he did when he was an apprentice, when a rustle disturbs him. A woman's dress. A scent of jasmine.

The back of a hand brushes against his cheek, then drifts under his chin, lifting his head with gentleness. Járnsaxa would recognize those freckles among thousands.

"What distresses you, my dear friend?"

And that voice, as velvety as sage leaves. He lifts his eyes to Freya's pristine face.

She really has come.

"I desire Thor Odinson" he murmurs.

The goddess inclines her head. A cascade of light falls down her hair, living, vibrant copper under the fretworks of a brass lamp.

"For your queen? For an alliance?"

Járnsaxa thinks of Gerð and of the her court's power games. "And for myself" he confesses.

Freya's beautiful visage saddens.

"Like I feared" she says, letting her hand fall back into the shimmering silks of her dress.

"Will you help me?" he asks, swiveling round on the bench. "You know Loki Laufeyson well."

"And the pupil long surpassed the teacher."

"I beg of you..."

Freya looks at him for quite some time, in silence. All around them, the library is a cavern of unfathomable depths.

"I will help you" she says at the end. "As I can. Exactly because I know him well."

Járnsaxa tries not to hear what she's not saying: _because it's already too late._

.

The equinox comes and goes without anyone commenting on the schedule's delay; nevertheless, Thor cannot remain over a lunar quarter – of the biggest moon, sadly. The Nine Worlds are calling, while Álfheim holds onto its scholars. It's an uncertain situation.

Luckily the months pass quickly: when summer veers in autumn, another visit from Asgard is announced and Járnsaxa cheers up, abandoning his plans to expatriate. Thor is looking for something, in their library; maybe not only books. And he'll have it, oh he will.

Despite all the good intentions, however, they don't see each other at the arrival of the delegation. Gerð is very near childbirth: preparations are bubbling over, engagements and tantrums are plentiful. It's in the afternoon that Thor decides to request his assistance in the library, just when Járnsaxa was about to run away screaming. (To find him.)

He enters, shining in his light armour and scarlet cloak. The hall brightens.

To Hel with dignity. Járnsaxa almost leaps toward him, bracelets and necklaces jingling.

"It's good to have you here."

Thor clasps his wrist in the ancient greeting, smiling back. His hand is very hot.

"The pleasure is mutual, my friend."

Then they look at each other without moving apart and, for a moment, the air is heavy with anticipation. Words unspoken. A decision with inscrutable consequences.

Járnsaxa is the first to withdraw. He pushes the hair aside from his face, trying to arrange them around his neck, and gestures for Thor to follow him. He leads him to the biggest table of the library, where codeces, parchment scrolls, old watercolor maps and a few marble slabs are set.

"When we had word of your return, Allfather, I took the liberty to select for you a few documents meeting the requirements of your research" he says, indicating the collection. "I hope you don't mind."

_You'll save time for other things_, he thinks, meeting his eyes.

He passes Thor a volume without even checking it.

Thor smiles, spontaneous, and sits on Freyr's highbacked chair. "Mind it? I'm in your debt!"

Like water freed from winter's grip, at that laugh Járnsaxa's body comes to life. It cannot generate warmth, but its lifeblood and fluids grow, gush, calling for life; calling for Thor. It wants him.

He wants him.

He looks him in the eye, ignores what he's saying and holds out a hand. "Come with me" he murmurs.

Thor seems perplexed. "Where?"

"In my rooms."

The hand that was reaching Járnsaxa's stops; goes back.

"I waited for you with bated breath all these months" Járnsaxa admits, giving up on all caution. "I wanted to desert my duties and escape to Asgard. Escape to you."

Thor looks away. All of a sudden, he seems reluctant. "My friend–"

"Just friend?" Járnsaxa steps forward, and knows he's risking a lot. "I would be more. I would worship you every day, with my all, for my entire life." Slowly, he lays a hand upon his left shouder and strokes down to his wrist. "I see only you, Thor. I want only you" he whispers, lowering himself. "And I see the way you look at me."

Thor, who was following his movements with ambiguity, stiffens.

Járnsaxa becomes aware of his own heart. A mad run, a pang.

"Or, perhaps I'm wrong?" he says, withdrawing to respectfully bow his head. "If it is so, I beg your forgiveness."

What follows is barely more than a murmur, reluctant and maybe involuntary.

"No, you're not wrong."

He cannot but breathe and live that confession. His hand is tingling.

Then he's moving. He touches the engravings decorating the golden clasps on Thor's shoulders; he slips his fingers inside the folds of Thor's cloak and tightens his grip. This point of equilibrium helps him in the next movement: he sidesteps the high-backed chair's armrest, lifts one leg and climbs into his lap.

Thor inhales harshly and raises his hands. For an instant, Járnsaxa believes he'll be hit.

But Thor stays like that, agape, body undecided on what to do. His breath smells of mead; his skin of leather and wheat. Járnsaxa takes advantage of his hesitation to put the arms around the king's neck and sit higher, thighs gripping his waist (let Freyr be praised for his taste in luxuries).

What he feels is _not_ armour.

«I want you, Thor" he whispers.

«J–»

Thor is uncomfortable. Rigid, but not in the right place.

He hasn't thrown him to the ground yet, though. Járnsaxa bites the inside of his own lip, quivering like a harp's chord.

"Am I too brazen, High Sovereign?"

His hair slip over his shoulder in a black, glossy waterfall. He knows he's attractive. He knows he has the qualities to win his love. Their mouths could kiss, now–

But Thor looks away, aiming his hands toward who knows what. "Not... necessarily, but–"

Járnsaxa touches his face, brushes the fingers through his beard.

"Then, maybe indiscreet?"

The moment passes and Thor peers at him with a calm that is somewhat disquieting. Járnsaxa bends his back, coming closer, breathing his air.

_Thor, Thor, Thor._

"I want you with everything I am. _Take me_."

The thighs under his buttocks are rock, and Járnsaxa isn't wearing anything under his _kjálta_. All it would take is to pull it aside, open Thor's trousers. They'd join here, in the place Járnsaxa loves the most – fast, intense and beastly. The books wouldn't betray their secret.

"I'm yours."

He lowers his head, lowers a hand.

Thor's fingers dig into his hips and Járnsaxa laughs, ecstatic, offering his mouth.

(He's like to ask how well Thor knows the Jötun body – ask to be brought to climax with every fine secret of his experience. He would teach him which are the differences due to species and which due to individual tastes, showing him what he likes best, and reciprocate with scrupulousness. He hasn't taken many Asgardians to bed. But Járnsaxa is a court animal, other that a poet stupid with passion: you don't allude to your rivals while you're trying to seduce the object of your love. Especially in this case.)

But before something, anything can happen, an exclamation and a thud resound in the library.

They flinch around to see Freyr's first councilor try to appear ignorant of what he's seen. Next to him, one of the little consulting shelves is overturned on the ground, surrounded by deformed volumes.

_You wretch_, Járnsaxa thinks, caught between two grudges.

Thor lifts him bodily and stands up, brusque.

"Allfather" Aslak says, with an admirable nonchalance. "My king sends me to ask if you would like to join us in the great hunt, before departing."

"It will be my pleasure, Gudrikson."

Answer received, Aslak doesn't waste time in disappearing. He does not run because he's a politician of long experience, and has a dignity to salvage; but he surely doesn't loiter. Járnsaxa doubts he came only to extend the invitation – a first councilor doesn't carry out a page's task. Even so, he cannot criticize his judgement: before a scene like the one he and Thor offered, the best option is to remove oneself from underfoot fast.

He wonders instead if and how he'll use that information. Aslak is a schemer. And Gerð, with her excessive fears, has truly become worse than a hound. It could be difficult to find another chance.

_Damn it._

"Forgive me" he says, disappointed and a bit shaken. "I thought I had closed all the doors."

Thor makes a half-gesture. It seems he's brooding on something, while he stacks three leather-bound books. Despite his practicality when it comes to the court, Járnsaxa doesn't know how to proceed.

"I was wondering, Járnsaxa..."

Oh, this doesn't bode well.

"Yes?"

"Would you like to make an official visit to Asgard? I believe Gerð and Freyr would have no objection."

For an instant, he thinks he's heard wrong.

Then he looks at Thor, who is waiting for a reply standing next to the table, and knows he heard well. It can mean only one thing. It takes his breath away, and Álfheim's heat suffuses his body.

There are obligations and responsibilities to tend to, forces adverse to his inclination. But, with all his heart, yes. Yes, he wants to go.

"More than anything else."

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	8. INTERLUDE - Politics

**Summary:** Freyr and Gerd talk about Jarnsaxa.  
Or, better: Freyr eats and drinks blithely while Gerd has a meltdown due to pregnancy and Jarnsaxa's indiscretions.

A short interlude to flesh the political (and royal family's) atmosphere in Alfheim a bit. Hope you like it!  
Back to long chapters with the next.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooo

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INTERLUDE

**Politics**

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.

.

Freyr has seen and lived a lot, in terms of passion.

When he thinks back to the years of his youth with Freya, he understands which impulses guide the choices of Odinson e Laufeyson: a taste for the prohibited, the familiarity of centuries lived together and maybe something more, a void that no one else can fill. But since he chose Gerð as his lifemate, in the end, he sees things from another point of view now. Catching wind of Járnsaxa's progress cannot but awaken him from the torpor of his indolent afternoon.

That, and a ranting Jötun patrolling the Boudoir Céleste.

Blessed peace.

"Crazy! He's out of his mind, and just for a nice backside!"

Freyr arches his eyebrows, lifting the mead chalice for a toast of appreciation. "I'd say a bit more than just a nice backside, my love."

The comment obtains a moment of silence, followed by a grimace.

"Alright, very well. Thor is the feast of Valhalla – and I'll never forgive you for not persuading him to join us in bed» Gerð snaps. When she turns, she bumps into an ornamental waterfall of glass. Bubbles and beads hit the white wooden screen enclosing the room, with a defeaning sound that goes diligently ignored. "But that's my point: a morsel like that, you taste it once, twice. You don't try and keep it forever in your pantry, inviting moths in the house."

Freyr know he shouldn't; his mate is always sensitive when in an advanced state of pregnancy (not to mention a bit dangerous). But he cannot help it: he bursts out laughing, raucous, letting the chalice fall and panting to tears.

When he resurfaces he's exhausted, sprawled on his brocade settee.

"Done?" Gerð asks, prickly.

"You and your merchantess metaphors..."

"There is nothing to laugh about, _husband_. You have no idea of the mess Jarn is putting himself into."

"I think he knows what he's doing. And I think that being weaned off the little brother will do Thor good."

Freyr reaches out with an arm, caressing her leg from calf to thigh – a move that always calms and distracts her. If he cannot sleep, at least let them occupy their time in more pleasurable activities than a discussion.

Gerð huffs, shakes her head and resumes waking.

"We're talking about marriage here. Járnsaxa mustn't dare even think of it."

"It doesn't seem a bad idea to me, you know" Freyr remarks, disappointed. Gerð turns around, agape. "Especially if Thor already seems to be halfway. I confess that the thought of seeing him joined with Loki forever was giving me some concerns, and still does."

"You're joking, I hope."

"By no means" he answers, with his most convincing smile.

"Tell me you're not planning to support this thing publicly" Gerð whispers, bending forward with a hand on her enormous belly. "Make it official? It would be ruin, for him and for us."

"I thought you loved Jarn."

"That's the very reason, you _moron_!"

Freyr doesn't take offense. He remains on his velvet pillows and plucks grapes from the bunch crowning the golden cornucopia on the side table, throwing them into his mouth.

"Thor will be flattered by it" he says, sucking. "And we will have a dear friend of us in his bed. Politics, my love."

Gerð crosses her arms. "It's _so_ clear you don't know him well."

"And you do?" Freyr asks, raising his eyebrows.

"He'll never give Loki-King up. A minimum of perceptiveness is all you need to see it."

"And perhaps you applied that to Laufeyson, too? He's always been a troublemaker, you know."

"Yes" she says, lips thinning. "Imagine then what he'll do when he'll find out about your plans. He must be already on the way to fury, after Járnsaxa's foolishness. I don't want to risk it. Álfheim lost so much when fighting the Aesir: do not provoke Jötunheim, now."

Freyr is saved the effort of finding a reply that is conciliatory and firm at the same time by the arrival of a page. It's Aslak's youngest daughter, ringlets of blond hair and clothes all in disarray; one of his queen's younger maids.

"Your Majesties!" she squawks, the looks at Gerð, wide-eyed. "Your Majesty! A _disaster_–!"

Freyr sits up in a flash, while Gerð brings a hand to her chest.

"What's happening?"

"The noble Járnsaxa... you said to supervise him–"

"_Supervise_?" Freyr repeats, full of disapproval.

"But?" says Gerð to the child, ignoring him.

"But the Allfather asked to talk to him in private and, oh, we are so sorry–"

Uh oh.

"What. Happened" Gerð says, grim.

"The Bifröst came down and took them in a whirl of light! The noble Járnsaxa has left!"

Leaving neither messages nor instructions for the Library, nor for the next royal prince's room, Freyr guesses. Things of little relevance right now, anyway.

In the silence that already tastes of furious screams, he slowly lowers himself back to the settee and grabs the bottle of mead from the marble floor.

How he hates the twelfth month of pregnancy.

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	9. Frustrations

**Chapter summary: **_"Beget children?_ I_?" he shouts._

**Notes**: I'm so sorry for the long wait! I started this back in late October, then there were NaNoWriMo [which wrung me dry], Yuletide fic-giving, Xmas, work going crazy and plain old tiredness. I chipped away at the translation bit by bit, but it was slow going. I hope to be faster with the next.  
Chapter proof-read to the best of my ability. Please do let me know if you spot any mistakes :)  
Enjoy.

* * *

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**Frustrations**

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**H**e wakes with a start, temple pulsing, blood running.  
The dream's intensity fades into vapor. Loki stays still, looking at the ice vault of the chamber with its ribbing of organic glows, breathing through his mouth. It's night. He's alone. There's no danger.  
The _seiðr _that protects the palace has a regular flow. Slowly, frowning, he props himself up with his elbows and sits upon the pelts of the bed. Hair spills on his neck.  
Even though it's still an instinctual move in uncertain situations, he doesn't change back to his Asgardian features. In all sincerity, he doubts he could do that. It's as if someone had transformed him into a river: every single part of his body vibrates, pressing and unstoppable, calling. With a deep breath, he opens his legs and bends his neck to look. When he touches himself, he shakes with a sudden tremor.  
He grits his teeth on a curse. He becomes aware that his mind is full of Thor and he proudly forces himself to empty it of thought.  
With caution, he lifts his pelvis, extracts the sodden pelt of _hjörtr _from underneath and throws it on the floor. Then, mouth curving in a grimace, he squeezes his thighs shut and rolls to the other side, going back to sleep.

What books, ballads and gossip of the beau monde don't explain to would-be-kings is that, behind sovereignty, hides an unescapable, disarming destiny: paperwork.  
A prince of conscientious ambition thinks he knows what lies in wait for him, but he's a poor dreamer. When it's his turn, the visions of glory will disappear under a mountain of papyri, tablets and memoranda that will crush him to dryness. Loki thought he could spare himself this torture, thanks to an intellect made of infallible memory, intuition and brilliant organisational ability, but reality has long disillusioned him. It's no use to destroy the papers, either. Bureaucracy's scrawls are a plague that not even fire can purify.  
A meagre consolation, the fact they compensate the extreme boredom of managing them with usefulness. Sometimes.  
Loki looks up without lifting his head from his right fist, and watches the work pile grow with balky resignation. His writing desk is so packed with mountains of paper that he could rebaptise it with the name of Jötunheim's highest range. It blocks the view of the room.  
For a moment, he wonders if conquering Midgard wouldn't have been a better achievement, career-wise; then he snorts, derisive. If a frozen land like this is capable of producing so much paperwork in just one day, no crown in Yggdrasill is free of it.  
In that instant, another red-sygil-decorated secretary enters to deliver two parcels made of silver foil. Loki stares at him with such malevolence that, despite his bulk, the secretary gets out as quick as a thief.  
_At least I have collaborators who aren't complete idiots_. He looks at the silver missive. _The_ _Ljosálfar are just what I needed today. What do they want, now?_  
What does everyone want from him, he ends up wondering. Isn't it enough that he stopped causing conflicts? Do they want to make him go insane again? Maybe it's a rebel plan.  
The prospect of a conspiracy is just beginning to rouse him when his retinue of advisors slash accountants, slash persecutors marches into the study, humbly asking for an emergency administrative meeting. Loki feels all strength leave him.  
And they wonder why Odin was a warmonger in his youth. Everything to flee bureaucracy.  
Norns, he just wants to grab Thor and go destroy something together – possibly something big, bloodthirsty and coriaceous.

Thor.  
To go and rope him into a mad quest.  
To light the fire of challenge in his eyes with but a few words. To tease him and to be told that _it's a terrible idea, but for you this and more, Loki._  
To be able to do that. (Without losing face.)

Since they began to keep their distance, Loki has dreamt of him every night, like he hadn't even after the fall from the Bifröst. Every night, in every way. Young and old, in battle, on the throne, in the seclusion of a dark room. Smiling, pensive. Frowning.  
With a hand around his throat and their bodies joined.  
Sometimes, Loki forgets how obsessed with Thor he is; other times he remembers all the reasons, feeding them his adoration and resentment. As of late, it seems abstinence plays its part.  
He can think almost only of sex. He's never been a carefree lover of the physical union like Thor, least of all eaten by the worm of mounting like Fandral the Cuckolded. Yes, having Thor changed some things; but Loki will always prefer the cerebral side of a relationship to the carnal one.  
As soon as he gets the time to reflect upon it – compliments of the unstoppable flow of bureaucracy – the situation makes him suspicious.  
He reflects, he listens to his body. He visits the palace head healer to discuss supplies and watches like an eagle the Jötun's behaviour, his glances.  
He fears he knows what's happening. He has read too much about his people to be able to ignore it. It's his body calling, and thoughts struggle to emerge from the background noise of that clamour. His organism is sending ambiguous signals; the press of warriors at gatherings, his close associates, visitors, everyone seems to feel it and everyone makes him uncomfortable. There are moments when he has the impression of being on the edge of a precipice, about to do _something_. To lose his self-control. Consequently, he's always tense, irritable, and he lashes out at anyone within shooting distance.  
It's a situation courting disaster. Peace or not, with the personal enemies he's made in centuries and a kingdom to run, he needs to be always in full possession of his abilities. It's already gone on too long.  
Even more worrying, no calming spell gleaned from Eir in years of court life has solved the problem. His metabolism has changed. He'll have to find the time to consult grimoires and invent a remedy of his own.  
Then, on an early winter morning, he's sitting hunched at his desk of ice with a scroll enchanted to resist the elements and piles of correspondence to think of – and, instead of working, he starts ruminating on Thor's absence.  
In less than a month's time, it will be Midwinter and Jötunheim will celebrate the peak of its strenght. Since they found each other again, Thor hasn't missed a Midwinter feast. If he doesn't attend, this year, it will be a horrible humiliation; and by force of logic, there won't be their _private_ celebration either. In the state Loki is, the Norns be blinded, the prospect makes him almost incoherent with fury.  
Maybe Thor has already forgotten about that.  
Or maybe he hasn't forgotten. Maybe he's planning to honour the solstice with someone else, this year. Someone docile and yielding.  
The bone core of the scroll breaks in his hand. At the same time, a very deep gong announces the entrance of his general in command, the_ jarl_ Thrym.  
"Loki-King" Thrym greets, kneeling.  
Furniture and glass vials shake. The surprise of seeing him is enough to distract Loki from his anger: he stares at Thrym for a while, wondering if he's come to the point of not remembering a summons.  
"You should be in Glæsisvellir", he says.  
The huge Jötun nods, curving his shoulders not to brush against the shelves of the studio. How Loki loves seeing them makes themselves smaller.  
"I ask an audience with my king. I've come to warn of a great danger."  
After considering him at leisure, Loki invites him to continue and gets up from his chair, to put the broken scroll away. He hopes Thrym is done soon: he's got work to ignore and brilliant plans to see to.  
"Problems in the far North. Ancient magic."  
Loki turns around, narrowing his eyes. He's been sensing a disturbance in the crystalline _seiðr _of Jötunheim for a few days.  
"Explain yourself."  
"The old shepherds are talking about a... hydra. A Blárhnöggr's Hydra. And I believe them."  
Loki stares, undecided on the most appropriate reaction to have. "You'd be dust, if it were true."  
"I saw its body, with this very eyes", Thrym's deep voice says, resounding. "Prisoner of the ice, but not for much longer."  
For a moment, Loki imagines lifting him with a vortex and hanging him by his feet from the ceiling of the throne room; making an example of his lie. But he cannot. Thrym isn't that kind of subject – he's rough and blunt, not contrived and untrustworthy. A true soldier.  
(And punishing a liar would be a bit hypocritical, besides.)  
"If it's not completely visible, it could be just an Ice Dragon, _jarl_. Don't be so sure of your senses." Then he gets pensive. "The Gastropnir doesn't need a dragon, though. And I don't want trouble during Midwinter."  
Thrym seems offended. His gaunt face hardens.  
"Loki-King, I know what I've seen. I recognized it. I remember the stories."  
The hydrae of Blárhnöggr have been a legend since the times of Borr's father. Although it would be magnificent to see and vanquish one, Loki thinks that it's impossible to find any: during centuries of reign he'd have sensed an energy of that magnitude, even if quiescent. When he remembers that an Ice Dragon isn't an insignificant opponent either, he smiles, showing Thrym all his pointy teeth.  
"Very well, then. We'll go and see."  
Nothing better than gutting a mighty monster, to get rid of certain frustrations.

The journey is long and lasts all night. They move using the beasts the Jötnar have been riding for millennia, the fearsome grey dragons of Könungsheim, the Land of the Kings, used to the tundras and quick upon the rocks.  
Jötunheim is divided in five regions by sharp vertebrae of glaciers, by the Great Fault and by the dead zone of the White Desert. Of his gnarled disk, the Gastropnir represents the upper cap, antipodal to Utgarð; a useful but negligible lid, which works as a buffer between rich Thrymheim and the black ocean of the far North. It hasn't got many riches nor appeal, Loki thinks, tugging the reins to slow down his mount at the top of a scarp. Actually, it is more of an inconvenience to look after the least possible.  
He observes the broad, flat plain stretching under the scarp before his company's eyes, and the mountains amassed at the end. Here ends Thrymheim. Down there, inside that honeycomb of gorges and steep sides, the barrier begins. Now he remembers why he hasn't visited the Gastropnir in centuries.  
Thrym comes up beside him, deftly manoeuvering the chain reins with one hand. Loki's dragon snaps his jaws toward Thrym's, which moves away with a flattened crest.  
"Where?" Loki asks, raising his voice to be heard.  
A snowy wind is rising.  
Thrym lowers the spyglass. He points at a spot to the North-East, simultaneously gesturing to three scouts, who go ahead downhill.  
Loki follows the line of the general's outstretched arm, narrowing his eyes. It's almost dawn, but Jötunheim's pallid sun rises to the West and the area is still shrouded in the glaciers' azure darkness. He murmurs a spell, giving himself a sharper eyesight. Among the serrated ranks of the peaks, he glimpses a breach.  
"It doesn't seem a true valley", he says.  
"It's a pass, my king. Not very high, but long and narrow."  
The perfect trap. They linger there, considering the terrain, the weather conditions, the route.  
After some time one of the scouts comes back, crossing the plain at a gallop. Behind himself, among the bone spikes of the dragon he's riding, he bears a Jötun clothed in worn leathers whose face is marked by a thousand hard winters.  
"Íttik's headman", Thrym says. "He'll take us to the new crevasse."  
Loki's eyes snap to him.  
"New?"  
Thrym appears sincerely troubled. "The ice is moving a lot, my king."  
As if the mountain were disturbed. Or it had something beneath itself.  
Loki's frowns, smelling the air heavy with magic. Before them, the old shepherd points to the grey tooth of rock overlooking everything and croaks: "Hél's Dagger."  
The name of the mountain. A fitting name.

High above, at the mouth of an almond-shaped valley, Loki observes his soldiers as they set the bloodhounds free – the same dragons they rode during the journey.  
He's taken with him the best of the palace troops: smart, hardy, mountains moving upon the disturbed snow. They shine among Thrym's rougher soldiers. They're from Jötunheim's most important lineages, and from merchants' workshops, from shepherds' huts; no compromises, in matters of talent. Loki's very own memories wouldn't allow it.  
Loki studies them and thinks that he could have any of them, at a mere gesture. Rather, he could have them all. The Jötunheim of old conservatives would rejoice at the news of having, if not a normal king, at least traditional consorts: youths of the best blood instead of the son of their ancient enemy.  
Loki thinks all these things but remains motionless, silent, waiting for some development.  
After all, it's easy to resist temptation. The Jötnar's icy flesh does not hold attraction for his eyes; the huge, sharp bodies of his giants awaken only his mind of warrior. For love, he wants warm blood and blond hair. He wants summer storms upon fields ripe for harvesting, strong hands to hold him still, and passionate obstinacy.  
He wants, it seems, always what it's almost impossible for him to have.  
There is a smell of magic in the air and, when he lifts his head toward the peak of the mountain, mournful cries arise. His cohort produces blades and shields, unsheathes swords, brandishes axes.  
"Trolls" Thrym says, dismounting from his own dragon.  
Loki arches his neck and traces the sound, letting his gaze roam among the mists cloaking the mountain tops. They're becoming thicker, even though dusk promised a clear dawn.  
Another call echoes across the valley. It stops and restarts, pressing. Loki finds himself remembering the apes of Midgard's great forests.  
"They never climb so high", he remarks. "Here's the source of the problem."  
Thrym's visage is grim. The cohort unites, ceasing the recoinnassance. Before it's in perfect defensive formation, from the surrounding heights comes a rumble, a tremor, a mighty shake. It's a sound the Jötnar know well, and usually love.  
With a curt shout and a gesture, Loki calls for the lesser _seiðrmadr _who accompany the cohort. Almost at the far ends of the deployment, two soldiers clothed in light armour and green _kjálta_ lift their arms, spreading their hands out with the palms toward the sky. Loki feels their magic ignite, converge upon him in search of a fulcrum. Quick, he stretches his arms upwards and enters the triangulation.  
A bright dome materializes above the cohort. Then the mists part, and an immense avalanche beats down on the shield.  
The weight is more psychological than real, but just as immense.  
When every movement ceases, Loki issues news instructions with another coded command, modulated by the rugged cranial cavities of the Jötnar. Slowly but inexorably, the mountain of snow suspended above their heads starts to melt, until it has sluiced away. Loki relaxes his arms. The dome of energy vanishes.  
"Skymir, you need to improve your control", he says. "Your corner was about to collapse."  
They look toward the peaks, waiting, They don't have to wait long: with a growing roar of thuds – and Thrym's warning – the trolls descend upon them.

They're a pack of gnarly beasts, almost as big as Könungsheim's dragons, but charcoal grey and squat where the dragons are white and sinuous. They emerge from the snow fog they're raising, causing the company to close ranks in preparation for the impact. To the side of the formation, the dragons open their maws wide and hiss, recognizing a natural enemy.  
Six, ten, about twenty.  
The mountain trolls' heads are triangle-shaped, attached to short necks; serrated teeth stick out of their abnormal mouths. They come down barely controlling their advance, put at disadvantage by the formidable humps on their backs, but stabilized by their disproportionately long arms.  
At a signal, the dragons are freed again and take flight, screeching. They hurl themselves at the trolls in twos and threes, diverting their course. Tangles of fangs and scales sink into the snow.  
Thrym's soldiers let out their battle cry. Then they spin weapons, animate ice and follow them.  
The muffled air of the valley fills up with clangours, shouts and whimpers. Loki stays onto the saddle of his dragon, which is quivering at the smell of first blood, and gestures to Thrym. When the general charges, Loki weaves protections and offensives from the cutting yarn of his magic to help the cohort, then arms himself, ready to defend his life while he supervises the clash.  
It seems that his contribution won't be fundamental: many soldiers come from Thrymheim and have experience with trolls, even if in smaller numbers.  
A movement catches his attention – just in time.  
A troll jumps out of an ice crater, leaving the broken form of a dragon behind, and charges him. Its mad howling attracts a second beast.  
Loki's dragon screeches, lifting her barbed tail. Loki observes the trolls.  
They don't recognize their king. They recognize no king; they're barely sentient. He feels no remorse in suppressing their progress, even if he certainly feels curiosity. This ambush en masse is more than atypical a behaviour.  
The battle is short and savage. The trolls of the crevasses are tough opponents, but not astute. Before the sun has risen over the mountains' frame, they have put the last down.  
For a few long moments, nobody moves. The soldiers look around. Some dragons snap their jaws, sniffing their own wounds or the carcasses.  
Loki stays ready, _seiðr _blazing around his body like a flame, but the gorge is silent. The trolls are on the ground in puddles of dark green ichor. Little by little, everyone lowers their weapons and reabsorbs ice plates, ice spines. What remains on them is a disgusting slough.  
Thrym appoints sentinels at the two entrances of the hollow and starts flipping bodies over with the Jötnar left. Distracted, Loki stretches an arm before himself. Pasty ichor trickles upon the disturbed snow of the ground.  
_Why didn't the magical armour keep it away?_, he wonders.  
Although accustomed to the sight of battefields, Loki lift his upper lip in disgust. Then something catches his attention. He narrows his eyes, distancing himself from the throng of soldiers: farther away, on the slope of a summit at the end of the valley, barely-discernible forms of trolls are rolling down and disappearing into the mists.  
Their alarmed calls reach him distorted by the echo of the mountains. The trolls could have caught the smell of death and decided to keep at a distance, but Loki has a feeling that there's more to it. He thinks back to the charge of those they have killed and returns to the side of the officials' group, to observe the carcasses. Above them, going toward the peak, the trails left by the trolls' unstoppable descent have a zigzagging pattern that reminds him of something.  
"They weren't attacking" he remarks, slowly. "They were fleeing. In disorderly numbers, like the ancient trolls of Álfheim."  
"From what danger, Loki-King?" a second officer asks. A short distance away, Olvaldi's son is communicating the number of wounded to Thrym. "With all due respect, wind, rocks and ice don't scare them."  
Loki lifts an eyebrow, then looks at his general.  
"A dragon?" Thrym says, voice as deep as that of the avalanche.  
Loki holds back a sigh. "Show me where it is, then."  
When the Jötun keeps silent, Loki shakes the head and lets his arm fall against his side.  
"Reorganise and clean up" he orders, making a beeline for a cluster of boulders uncovered by the clash. "We'll search until the sun's zenith. The we head for the Könungsheim."  
Thrym answers with a punctilliously formal bow.  
"Thrym_-jarl_, a dead soldier" a noncommissioned officer announces, bent over the body of a comrade.  
Another one draws near. "It's Menglað."  
Thrym joins them, observes in silence.  
"Inevitable" Loki says, after a few moments of consideration. He reaches the jagged side of the gorge. "Trolls always leave victims in their wake. You've made no mistakes, general."  
_Except by believing in the hydra_, but he lets that one slide. He wanted to put some distance between himself and the palace, and the supposed hydra allowed him that. He sits heavily on the nearest boulder and closes his eyes, suporting his forehead. The sound and sensation of glue make him withdraw it right away.  
He hisses, shaking it. He'd invoked a protective barrier – it's evident that, at some point, it collapsed. Why? It never happens. Not when there aren't dangerous sorcerers in the vicinity.  
He shakes his arm with more force, and that movement worsens a vague discomfort, turning it into a stab of migraine. Loki grabs his head with two hands and groans.  
"My king?"  
He becomes aware of the earth quaking under his feet, then the oscillation intensifies. His troops let out cries of alarm, every eye looks skyward, fearing another avalanche.  
But Loki knows it's not that. In a flash of sensation, he recognizes the powerful buzz of _seiðr._  
A _seiðr _storm.  
Here's the reason, he thinks. That current has been growing, disturbing his magic more and more. He reopens his eyes.  
He's leant a shoulder against the mountain's face; he feels it crack. He holds onto the ground's solidity with ice claws while chaos erupts among his troops. Before them all opens a vertical crevice, which runs and reaches the misty peaks in a single, deafening break.  
Behind him, Thrym runs in his direction.  
Loki doesn't pay attention to it. He's seeing only one thing – the crevice, its sharp edges, the inscrutable darkness in the heart of the mountain.  
And, at the bottom of that breach, five enormous silvery eyes, staring at him with the light of intelligence.

What happens afterward is blurry, and so it will remain in his memory.  
He knows what he's done: he has closed and sealed again Hel's Dagger, imprisoning under the weight of the mountain the beast that had awoken. But he has no idea _how_ he's done it. Maybe the spirits of his forefathers possessed him during the storm, guiding him toward victory. As much as the idea wounds his pride, he admits to himself that he feels relief. He didn't have the knowledge to face that menace.  
A hydra of the Blárhnöggr. A gigantic, immeasurable monster, one of the most ancient creatures of Yggdrasil, born from Ymir's primordial maelstroms. So long dormant as to be almost forgotten...  
Loki can only imagine what forces they command. What he heard was enough to instill cold horror in him. If he didn't show fear, he certainly, ardently wished he had Thor at his side.  
He wishes it even now. His work has a kind of incompleteness to it; the hydra still lives.  
Thrym was right: they truly needed a powerful _seiðrmaðr_. What he couldn't know was that even Odin at the cusp of his might would have vanquished the hydra only with the favour of luck.  
While he breathes in the snowy smell of life, Loki thinks that he's had a lot of it, today. And he wonders what he's still doing here.

Loki leaves Thrym and his contingent behind to clean up. Before the sun goes down, he takes himself and his guards back to the palace, opening a dimensional passage in the fabric of Jötunheim's reality.  
He's blown off some steam, at least; he's ready for a long night of scheming. Utgarð is tranquil, the kind of atmoshpere that inspires him the most.  
But he's taken just one step beyond the gate that there are dispositions to give and advisors to placate, so, when he has finally freed himself, Loki is almost ready to chop heads off again. He's in the atrium of his private baths when the sentinel lets through Thrym's second in command, Iði, covered in filth. Crystalline floor, sovereign-friendly furnishings and so on shake as always.  
"The final report you asked for, Loki-King."  
It's his only saving grace. Loki gestures downward before his own body – the filth slides away with a green glow – and grabs the report from Iði's hand. He peruses it quickly.  
"And their families?"  
"No one. Orphans, bachelors. Any orders, Loki-King?"  
Iði waits, flexing the bulging muscles of his abdomen. Considering that, for reasons independent from personal will, his sovereign's head reaches that height, it's hard to miss the movement.  
Loki deliberately turns his head in the opposite direction.  
In the past, he believed that such a behaviour was a nervous tic of the officer. A _seiðrmadr_ king is something that Jötunheim's brute warriors have learned to fear, and tension is let out in any possible way. Then he noticed that, in Thor's absence, demonstrations of attractiveness and physical prowess abounded everywhere. The king doesn't have even one consort: every house, especially Iði's ancient lineage, would like to put their pawns into play. Prejudices matter little.  
It would even be funny, if during fertility celebrations Loki didn't have to witness things he's never wanted to see.  
At the corner of his line of sight, Iði forgets about stomach muscles to bend one leg forward, tyrannosaurus-worthy thigh swelling with the power of twenty centuries of war. Loki sighs.  
Go figure why they've convinced themselves that he likes his lovers big, hulky and intrusive.  
There is only one boor that can make his head spin, and not for those traits.

He stays in the baths for some time, immersed in the dimness, watching the glimmers reflected by the waters upon the walls of living rock. These are almost thermal springs, for the local climate, and the air is permeated with a pleasant warmth.  
The absolute tranquillity of this cavern has always made meditation easier. Little by little, Loki relaxes, finding his balance again.  
Or at least he thinks so, until he gets outside. He lays a hand on his chest, on his forehead, listening to what was muted by the water. His body is flooded with a strange buzz. He couldn't describe it – he's never felt anything like this. He recalls the _seiðr _storm, the terrible will of the hydra, and furrows his brow. Maybe he should do some research tonight.  
But when he leaves the baths and throws a grey pelt upon his shoulders, it's to the healing rooms that his steps lead him, not to the library. The head healer he has chosen, Angantýr Skrímirson, has many centuries under his belt and an almost-endless experience.  
He enters into the long, vaulted hall without hesitation, breaching and rebuilding the ice wall the apprentices raise every night to protect the sleep of the patients. Rectangular recesses, more or less deep, more or less long, have been cut into the side walls; their bottom is covered either in fresh snow or furs, to meet the different necessities of Jötunheim's tribes. A glance reveals that four alcoves are occupied: the guests have closed themselves in with a layer of ice. Maybe discretion won't be a problem.  
Loki takes the doorway in front of him, entering Angantýr's rooms. Stone shelves resist stoically under the weight of tablets, bizarre instruments and vials. A phial near his elbow is catalogued as "Aesir virgin's hair".  
"Ah, Loki-King. I've heard of your victory and return", a voice intones. "I congratulate you on your greatness. But what can I do for you? They tell me you're unharmed."  
Angantýr emerges from a curtain hanging at the end of the room, without making a sound. He's not much taller than Loki, though more muscular; he was born in a condition half-way between warrior and _ívidja_, and _seiðr_ runs powerful in him.  
They meet in the middle of the chamber. After this acknowledgment of his rank, Loki offers him a writs with all the dignity of a sovereign.  
"What I confronted was a hydra of Blárhnöggr, half-buried under Hel's Dagger. Did they tell you this?" He thinks he sees Angantýr pale under the complex black tattoos of his face. "While trying to free herself, she unleashed a magic blizzard. And now I feel..."  
He cannot find an adjective. Restless. Electrified.  
The healer observes his face, then his wrist, which he grips with a deference resembling fascinated hesitation. He gives a small flinch.  
"Do you feel that, too?" Loki asks. "Did I absorb some part of her energy?"  
"I... don't believe so, my king."  
"What else, then? I know the feel of _seiðr._"  
Angantýr exhales slowly, then lets him go and gestures for him to follow. He leads Loki to the great stone table, upon which he puts an impregnable wooden chest. Out of it, he fishes an instrument made of very light silver arms that shiver and start fluctuating in the air. He places it near Loki, holding it at head level, then chest, then abdomen level, careful to check which arms are raised and which ones stretch out in the opposite direction. When he puts it down, he moves away and folds his hands one over the other, murmuring something. Eventually, he runs them in front of Loki, parallel to his body.  
Nothing happens.  
He shakes his head, looking certain. "The beast didn't leave you anything harmful. Maybe she would have succeeded, if your magic were weak, but it is not so. You're in full command of your _seiðr_."  
Loki stares at his own palms and grits his teeth in frustration. "And yet, I feel–"  
He doesn't complete the sentence; Angantýr has always been accurate in his diagnoses.  
"My king, I assure you that your affliction is quite mild and of entirely inner a nature.»  
Surprised, humiliated, furious, Loki pulls back. Suspicion is enough.  
He makes a beeline toward the exit – he's about to walk out, when the need to know stops him. With a fortifying breath, he turns around and inspects the chaotic depth of the room to avoid looking in the healer's eyes.  
"What plagues me? Speak freely."  
Angantýr answers with no hesitation, joining his fingertips in a pyramid.  
"Your body, majesty, has reached full maturity – the moment in which every Jötun looks for a mate and creates a family." An arm movement is _captatio benevolentiae_ for what inevitably follows: "Late compared to our normal development, but you're an _ívidja_, nothing to be surprised about. You're healthy and strong."  
Loki presses his lips into a line. He knew it, he knew it, damn.  
"And there's nothing to be surprised about, if an _ívidja_ is reduced to little more than an animal in heat?", he hisses though his teeth.  
Angantýr appears very alarmed by that definition. He's right to be, for patience is running thin on all fronts, by now. To distract himself, Loki lifts a metal cup from the nearest shelf, turning it between his fingers.  
"These reactions", he forces himself to say. "This unbearable state. Is there a cure? How long will they last?"  
Angantýr's forehead smooths slightly. "Oh, not long–"  
"_Good_."  
"If you'll have a child."  
The cup almost falls from Loki's hands. The healer's expression is made of stone.  
"By your leave, my king: the first time is always the most difficult. Your condition pushes me to advise you not to ignore the natural needs of your body. With due respect, why should you? You're at the peak of your power: reason wants that you give Jötunheim an heir."  
It's just too perfect. With a smile that must be a horrible grimace (and a strange desolation in his chest), Loki thinks that his life's coincidences are always, artistically spot-on. If the Norns want to exact revenge on him, they're not putting much effort into hiding it.  
The bronze cup is crumpled in his hand. Angantýr's calm wavers.  
"Do not retreat", Loki orders. "Start racking your brains to find a remedy for this nuisance, instead."  
"But there is no remedy, majesty. Either a child or waiting for it to pass..."  
Loki, who up to now had fixed his eyes on the shelves overflowing with tools and phials, slides his stare on him. At this point, he'd only like to be presented with an excuse for violence. "Really."  
"I am only here to serve you. I won't talk further of this, if it meets your displeasure."  
"No, continue. Better to know. Continue", he repeats.  
"I know what you're thinking. I know that you're a great sorcerer, and that you could find a way to soothe your body, but I beg you to reconsider. I've looked after your father, his father and grandfather before you, and seen many things. Listen to my advice. Meet the necessities of your nature."  
Loki hurls the cup on the trod ice floor.  
"Beget children? _I_?" he shouts. The clump bounces and falls between the cabinets flanking the entrance. "And with whom? _With what consort I should generate this heir?_"  
When he shuts up, in Angantýr's eyes there is a glint of anticipation.  
"Perhaps it's the time to show the Golden Line, my king."

The Golden Line. It's a dusty ceremony from the origins, when the tribes distinguished themselves by painting their bodies; a state spectacle that history consigned to books with illuminations of clubs and _colossei_. He'll be damned before he consigns his destiny to the barbarous instincts of the Jötnar. Loki Laufeyson leaves nothing to chance.  
(Ideally.)  
He inspects himself in the reflection produced by a column's smoothness. In the sea-like glow of the corridor, the crystalline composition under the surface distorts his image. For a moment, he doesn't recognize himself.  
Then the impression solidifies. What's that hesitation? What is he doing?  
Why is he still here?  
This isn't him. He should have been in Asgard months ago – _home_, to put into motion the events that will fulfil his objectives and pacify Thor. That will bring harmony back between them. Somehow, he lost sight of the methods that always allowed him to.  
He would avert his gaze, but pride forces him to look himself in the eye. _What are you afraid of?_  
He's alone, almost adrift, and for nothing. The corridor reverberates around him, deserted.  
Enough.  
Inside his chamber, he uncovers the shiny _uru _mirror which twin resides in Asgard. With a word of power, Loki activates it. It's a two-way means of communication: the other will glow and, once touched, will create a magical passage for light and sound at worlds-distance. One of the best inheritances of his throne, pride of an unknown, ancient _seiðrmaðr._  
He wasn't counting on it, but Thor is in his rooms. He must have returned from Álfheim earlier.  
Thor seems surprised, then reticent, then happy.  
"Loki. To what do I owe this call?"  
Let's go for the direct approach. "I want us to meet in peace again."  
Thor's expression doesn't change, so his tone surprises him. "You speak well, for the one who started the hostilities."  
"Don't I always speak well?"  
A nod. "True."  
They look at each other in silence. Loki holds back a sigh.  
"Do you understand what I'm asking you?"  
"Oh", Thor says, brightening. "Was what I heard truly a surrender? You want to marry me, at last?"  
And Loki's tongue be damned, because sometimes it's faster than his good sense, and this time it answers in an undertone: " I should, to someone else–"  
"Perhaps it can be arranged. You won't have to insist much longer."  
Loki's icy blood stops. That's what he wanted, isn't it? But there is something tickling his fury – he doesn't struggle to understand what. He peers at Thor with the impression of observing the whole scene from outside.  
"You're talking about that quim."  
"Járnsaxa isn't what you think. You shouldn't talk about him like that."  
An incredulous laugh bursts out of Loki. "Do you hear yourself, Thor? He's a courtier of Freyr's, a _Jötun_! Entirely unsuitable–"  
"I don't think so."  
His frustration veers into rage, quick as a flash. "You're an idiot. You're ruining everything, as always."  
Despite the furrowed brow, Thor's eyebrows go up with remarable agility. "_I_?"  
Thor shakes his head and puts the paper knife he was playing with down on the mirror's supporting table, with the air of someone about to leave. Something he has every intention of doing because, an instant later, he lifts a hand in mid-air, as goodbye, and turns his back on the mirror, headed toward the double doors of the chamber.  
"Are you serious, then?" Loki hisses. "Are you really serious, Thor? Don't be stupid!"  
"Don't be manipulative."  
"This isn't what I want for you!"  
Thor turns around slowly. "...That _you_ want?"  
Loki is about to continue, but he shuts his mouth. He spends a few moments studying Thor. "You know."  
"No, I don't know."  
"Please excuse me... oh, am I disturbing you?"  
Loki's eyes twitch to the back of the room, they widen.  
It's not possible. This is Asgard, not Álfheim. But that is, without a doubt, Ýdalir's damned First Scholar. In Thor's bedchamber – in _their_ bedchamber, interrupting them as if he had a right to. For a moment Loki is incredulous, because that can mean only one thing, in the language of a courtier (or a suicide's). Then his eyes turn to slits.  
If he weren't on the opposite extremity of their branch of Yggdrasil, he would be already bent over a body. This isn't good, but, like many other things before, he can only see betrayal and humiliation through the red haze of fury.  
"Loki?", Thor calls, worried.  
And by the Norns if he is right to be.  
"_You haven't heard the last of this_."  
.

.


	10. One doesn't want what is easy to get

**Notes:** Sökkvabekkr was Sága's palace (she could be identified with Frigga), entirely made of glass, near which there was a waterfall from which sound omens were taken. I considered it an area of the Válaskjálf, just to give a bit more importance to the "terrace" where Jane stands in TDW.

* * *

.

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**One doesn't want what is easy to get**

.

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**I**

.

The Bifröst is a river of breathtaking light. Agile and turbulent in the motion of travel, beyond the Guardian's temple it becomes a crystalline bridge, striated with all the colours of the world. It's the masterpiece of the High Magic, the mirage that few poets succeeded in describing, nobody in imitating.

Járnsaxa stops to look at it under the starry vault of the sunset. He's used it sometimes, in the past – Asgard is open onto a peaceful galaxy, and he has always chased knowledge through Yggdrasil's libraries. But never he entered its vortex together with its master, nor did his foot falter upon the Observatory's entrance while his arm was supported by Thor Odinson's hand.

It's like some of his energy remained within Járnsaxa. The Golden Realm seems vivider.

Or maybe it's the awareness of the new present: he will explore the Asgard unknown to the majority, at the side of the most extraordinary person he knows. And he will do so in safety.

Freya's runes feel like velvet ribbons. Her hands traced them in gold and köhl on Járnsaxa's body, lingering on the vital points – forehead, neck, heart, stomach. Gold for defence, black for deflection of danger. They're soft runes that follow his movements, but possess the tenacity of metal, the fibre of Vanaheim's poisonous lianes.

Járnsaxa flexes his fingers. _Seiðr _runs all over him. With the soles of his feet, he perceives the breath rising from the sea and the forces of the earth below: they're friends strengthening his protections. He's enveloped by sacred magic, as pure as the primordial energies of the Great Tree. He's never felt more in danger, and more alive.

He knows what he's up against: facing a wolf of Jötunheim means going back to the savage youth of his village, and the Jötnar's blood doesn't forget the violence of the fight. He will be up to the challenge.

Or so he hopes.

He looks around, while the wind pushes his hair against his neck. "There are no mounts."

There always are, outside the Observatory; centuries ago, a transport outpost was built next to the golden globe of the gate, with a stable, grooms and various types of beasts. Not every traveler has the gift of dematerialization, after all, and the Bifröst is long. Maybe the absence of horses is due to the hour.

Thor smiles at him, unfastens Mjölnir from his belt.

"It doesn't matter. Shall we go?"

.

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II

.

He hasn't seen Loki since the summer solstice, when he was in Álfheim for the diplomatic trip. In five months and a half they've spoken only via letter, or via emissary, solely for matters of state. His absence is a thought that accompanies Thor every step, tangible even when he's not aware of it. It brings back many memories.

With him, today, he has Járnsaxa. His appearance inspires a calming familiarity, and that's the very state of mind Thor should be avoiding.

If he thinks about the library they left behind, he sees again an ecstatic expression a breath away from his face and feels a body clutching his. Maybe he's been poisoned. They departed in a tearing hurry – it's precisely how it will appear to Freyr's court, to Asgard's. An escapade.

In the worst case, an elopement.

Inside the discretion of his thoughts, Thor can even admit that he beat a retreat before Járnsaxa's affections; but he cannot flee from the awareness of the effect that little scandal will have on Loki, and of having been conscious of it the moment he started it.

He holds back a sigh. His mind is a confused tangle. There's guilt in there.

He doesn't know if he should rejoice or despair for it.

He approaches Járnsaxa and puts an arm around his waist, whirling Mjölnir. When they take flight, it's to Járnsaxa's scared exclamation.

(Loki threw an ecstatic cry, the first time.)

.

Ýdalir's Sapphire turns out to be an attraction. By now, a frost giant in his true skin isn't an unusual thing in Asgard, but it's difficult to find one with Aés proportions, attractive, brought in flight by Mjölnir and – contrary to Loki – cordial as well.

They have barely alighted on end of the Bifröst that people on the street notice, point. While they obtain two horses from a guard, a little crowd gathers. Meddlers and layabouts who should be at the palace (Fandral) follow them, welcoming him back home and shouting questions to the unexpected guest. Someone mistakes him for Loki.

Járnsaxa arches his eyebrows and greets them all from the top of his saddle, copper and gold bracelets jingling, fox tippet slipping down his naked shoulders to his elbows with the motion. He seems amused. He introduces himself as an ambassador and answers the questions, ignoring the bolder comments.

Thor knew about his qualities, but this show of competence is a work of art thought, even in its spontaneity, for the Aesir, for the Álfar and for _him_.

Járnsaxa does have the makings of a queen.

He wants Thor to recognize it.

And Thor has just made more public a situation that was already too much so. Getting out of it without incidents of image becomes more and more improbable with every passing hour.

.

They slowly climb the slope that leads to the palace, among towers and residences illuminated by increasingly vivid torches. When they enter the Golden Square, they find a welcome that's no less curious than the first. Servants, a few functionaries, nobles in residence. Rumours spread fast.

Thor dismounts and entrusts his beast to a groom. He sighs, looking around himself. Has everyone gone crazy?

A glimmer catches his attention, distracting him from the din: standing beside the stele of the Ancient Pacts, where the columns open to give access to the throne room, there's his mother.

Despite the position, she stands apart. She's wearing a beautiful, informal green dress and her lines wrinkle around a perplexed smile.

"Mother" he greets, stepping toward her.

She lets him take her hands but, when Thor bends to kiss them, she doesn't press her lips against his forehead. Thor straightens and sees that her eyes are on the creature at the centre of the small crowd.

"What are you doing, my son?" she sighs.

For an instant, he feels again like a guilty boy. Then he remembers that the fault of the current situation doesn't lie with him.

"I'm remeding my solitude."

Judging from the movement of her mouth, his mother doesn't approve neither tone nor intention. But she has always been prudent with interfering, so she limits herself to furrowing her brow, continuing to study Járnsaxa.

"I hope you know what you're doing."

Thor doesn't know how to answer. She shakes her head, grips his arm.

"Introduce me to our guest, Thor."

.

A little later, the tasks Thor neglected before take up all his attention. They see each after an hour, at the rich, boisterous official dinner.

After its conclusion Thor shows Járnsaxa the palace, from the celebrative halls to the guest floors, promising an extended visit the following day, when the light will be better and the bureaucrats asleep. He intends to leave him there, in the sumptuous apartment prepared by his mother's ladies. Only pure chance has that they touch upon the subject of a rare book and that, at the Jötun expressing the desire to read, Thor remembers having a copy in his rooms. That he offers to loan it to him.

Without reflecting, Thor deviates toward the Royal Wing, situated inside the slender crown of the Válaskjálf. While Járnsaxa admires the low-reliefs on the walls of the first antechamber, observing his movements from the corner of an eye (taking him here wasn't a good idea, it really wasn't), Thor enters the bedroom and closes the door behind his back. He looks arouns. Finds the volume.

When he bends to retrieve it from an overflowing armchair, the magical mirror next to the escritoire lights up.

It's Loki. At his expression Thor's heart quickens, lightens in anticipation. Maybe it's the moment. Maybe he's already won. He approaches, and tells himself to remain steady at the helm to guarantee that victory.

"I want us to meet in peace again."

Loki is penitent.

But not enough: there is still too much stubborness in him, and anger; manipulation. The arrogance of which he accused Thor for so long. _What I want for you. What_ I _want_–

The discussion heats up, they raise their voices. Then Járnsaxa comes in and Loki's stare zeroes in on him, lighting up with cold fury. He didn't know.

He found out in the worst way.

If Thor planned to provoke a response, he's succeeded better than he intended, and perhaps he won't obtain the answer he desired. He must make sure the situation doesn't deteriorate; he accompanies Járnsaxa out of his apartments and entrusts him to his mother's care, and she might not like him, but she will keep him safe.

After that, Thor feels up to look for him only the next morning.

.

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III

.

When Thor finds him, Járnsaxa is standing on the terrace of the Sökkvabekkr, intense gaze upon the city. From there, the reflections on the coastal inlet that becomes a canal and reaches toward the palace, wedging itself among meadows and towers, are a mirage that paints light on everything. Járnsaxa's Asgardian face and clothes are lit up. He's wearing his hair loose on the shoulders, long and lustrous.

Thor stops on the airy boundary of the colonnade, caught by a memory. For an instant epochs fade, persons overlie: Thor sees Jane Foster again and is overwhelmed by nostalgia. She had the same expression. Almost the same posture.

Beyond Járnsaxa's profile, Asgard's splendour is spread out and Thor thinks he glimpses something upon the sea, an atmospheric undulation, perhaps, like the ones caused by hot air. He frowns.

Then Járnsaxa speaks.

"I am not afraid of Loki-King", he says, turning around to stare at him with his carnation-red eyes.

_You should be._

But Thor doesn't say it, because he thinks that he, much like Jane, would refuse that advice. Brilliant minds like theirs have always a certain disdain for good sense. He shakes his head. Two persons, two such different geniuses, and both – for some inexplicable reason – gifted him in time with their heart. His chest swells with a surge of pride. He has received a lot from fate.

The situation is uncertain, but in memory of those loves and their fruits, different but equally dear, he will have for Járnsaxa the same courtesy he had for Jane. For the time that will be granted them, Thor will lead him through the secret shortcuts and panoramas of Asgard, away from the court, revealing to him the discoveries he made when he was a boy. Showing him the signs he and his friends left. He will reveal the majestic Asgard and the simple one, the Asgard he thinks of with greater pleasure.

It will be the celebration of an uncomplicated love, which echoes keep on reaching him through time and still know how to heal his spirit.

_Dear Jane, please accept this sincere homage_, Thor thinks. _And please forgive me if I offer it to Járnsaxa, too...spoiled by an ulterior motive._

He smiles. "What do you say to a short trip?"

"I'd be glad to."

.

He's using him. And even if Járnsaxa suspects, and knows the risks – because he's not naive – this fact does not change.

But it doesn't mean that Thor does not care for him, and does not regret this.

.

.

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IV

.

He lied to Thor. It's not true he doesn't fear Loki. Only a fool would not, after seeing his ire.

But it's easy not to think of it while strolling through the Golden City. Thor has made it more alike himself, beautiful and full of love for life. Everywhere there is movement. Everywhere, hope for the future.

And, even if it's diffidult to admit it, signs of Loki-King's hand too. He might have long hated his old homeland, but that hate was destined to dust because Thor Odinson was destined to its throne.

In all honesty, Járnsaxa wonders why he's not already here. Loki will defend his territory, even though yesterday he was ready to throw it to the wolves. Apart from what concerns Thor – and truthfully in that too, in some ways – it's impossible to understand Loki Laufeyson.

Járnsaxa doesn't know what to expect. Nothing good, but in what form? Scorn? Ridicule? Violence?

He can only wait and stay alert. Also because it seems that Loki-King isn't the only risk to his safety. Járnsaxa is small for a Jötun, but tall for an Asgardian. He towers over many of the warriors and court men he comes across, and this without taking into consideration the horns; it makes him feel exposed – vulnerable. He hasn't forgotten the stories, hasn't forgotten the misery brought to Jötunheim by Odin (and by his own forefathers); of their generation esteemed proponents still remain who stare at him, tracking his movements until he's gone.

He knows what the Aesir are capable of doing.

Therefore, in the two following days, he tries not to attract attention when he's alone, and notices that Thor rarely leaves him without a friend, page, maiden or assistant as an escort.

.

.

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V

.

There is an open book, on Thor's escritoire.

Járnsaxa has entered the study hoping to find company after the literary symposium, but there is no one, and then he sees it. A tome like he hadn't seen in a long, long time.

He approaches slowly, recognizing the binding, the pages of _uru _foil bound with leather and dragon bone; the discreet but valuable semiprecious stones that were mined in Jötunheim's quarries when the branch of his old world was still thriving. The pages reflect a glimmer of light. Next to the only column of runes, engraved by burin, two miniatures shine. It's a work of art. A _codex_ from the Library of Mímir.

But how can it be here? The ancient library was destroyed during the war for Midgard, and everyone knows that no trace of it remains. Járnsaxa himself, through the centuries, has combed enough collections and black markets to know that no copies have survived.

Nevertheless, his eyes aren't deceiving him. Everything corresponds – the craftsmanship, the materials, the object's extreme age. And there is a feeling...

He stops a few feet away.

There's something in that book, something magical and menacing that doesn't want him near.

It was said, in the past, that many volumes of the Library of Mímir were only for the eyes of kings; in that moment he has no difficulty believing it. The distance, in any case, isn't sufficient to prevent him from seeing what the miniatures portray: with a few tricks, and coasting the side of the massive escritoire, Járnsaxa sees the incredibly high spires, a body painted in powder of gold and sapphire. A Winter King upon his throne. On his body...

The sacred lines.

He holds his breath, while his heart bets wildly. Why is that book here? Why is it open at that page? As if...

He clenches his fists, invaded by a deep sense of reverence.

It's a sign. He knows it.

.

A weight settles on his chest.


	11. Decisions

**Notes:** So sorry for the long wait! This chapter didn't want to be translated decently and I had to take a break from it, then life happened. Back on track now, I hope. The next one will be longer, though, so I can't promise anything ;)  
Hope you like it! And please don't be too hard on Thor.  
Written using the prompt 'Avengers, Loki, Jötnar and ritual body painting' piscina di prompt. Shameless autofill.  
Brief glossary:  
\- as you surely know already, _bera_ and _geta_ are terms often used in Thor fics to mean "mother" and "father" among the Jötnar  
\- kýn = kin (family, people)  
The Golden Line I invented myself, though it was distantly inspired by Avatar's body painting.

* * *

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**Decisions**

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I

.

Since Asgard is the kingdom of eternal spring, waking up with shivers leaves Thor disoriented.

He's lying on his bed, above the covers; he's got an arm across the torso and the other limbs eagle-spread, the posture of his deep sleeps. The vaults of the royal bedchamber arch above him.

Distracted, he notices that somebody took away his canopy's cover, to wash it perhaps. It doesn't look bad at all, without it: the last lantern alive creates a beautiful play of lights on the inlay works of the ceiling. He blinks. His thoughts focus.

He has no memory of going to sleep.

He thinks back to the previous evening, and gets impressions of a smile, of suggestive verbal sparrings. Járnsaxa's advances, explicit in all but word. He remembers taking papers from his studio to decline with a rightful pretext, _matters pending for days_... He must have been reading in bed rather than at his desk.

Yes, it went like that. Few things are as soporific.

Járnsaxa is impatient; he wants him and is used to be open about his own desires – like everyone in Álfheim, where there is no shame in open sensuality. Soon his perspicacity will get the better of his infatuation. He'll confront Thor, and Thor is not ready to do him the wrong of that refusal. The good days spent together are a stab to his conscience; the past of another life whispers promises to him.

He's got gooseflesh. Where is the cold entering from?

With a grunt, he sits up. A waterfall of screeds falls from his chest, gliding here and there.

He sighs, then rubs his face and looks around. Furrows his brow. He was wrong before, there are no lamps lit: the reflections he observed on the ceiling have no visible source. They move gently, like a moon's light. And that cold...

He opens a hand and Gungnir is with him.

Could it be an ambush set with magic?

It's then that, beyond the arch leading to the antechamber, he sees that the glass doors of the terrace are open and calls himself stupid for not checking before. The draught comes from outside, as absurd as it seems. It's true that, since his father left the reign, the ancient magics with which he'd built the defenses have weakened, and Loki reinforces those crystallizing the seasons in a long late spring ever less; but Asgard is still the world of tepid days. Frosts shouldn't happen, except on the mountains.

Reaching the vestibule, he catches a strange glimmer.

He continues, climbs the steps leading outdoors, extends an arm and pushes the glass door completely open. While a blast of biting air hits him, his eyes rise to an unexpected sight.

_Aurora_, he thinks.

He exits with his head thrown back.

Aurora borealis. Vivid and brilliant and high on Asgard's entire sky, like those he saw on Midgard in his youth – even more. There they are caused by Sól's power. But here... here they doesn't exist. _Shouldn't_ exists.

Jötunheim has something similar, a phenomenon that manifests when _seiðr_ storms meet the ice crystals suspended in its atmosphere. Many consider it a sign of good fortune, or of imminent change. Could it be...?

Oh, he'd be capable of that.

Thor steps toward the centre of the terrace, relaxing the arm bearing Gungnir. On the deep blue of the sky, streaked with silver, dance festoons of lights: they are born, faint, on the marine horizon and they wind above the ripples up to the city, where they open out in full radiance, projecting colours on every palace, canal and garden. The most beautiful, a crown worth of the kingdom's greatness, blazes upon the Válaskjálf. Thor arches his neck to admire its entire width, while his breath rises toward the firmament in an ephemeral puff.

The glory of that aurora turns from green to turquoise, to aquamarine, to glow with gold and copper near the mountains.

It's a breathtaking sight. A message come from the cold, together with the cold.

Thor inhales deeply and feels himself smile.

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II

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He's ready, but he's not.

He wants and wants not. It's his old, extenuating paradox.

Angantýr is right in more ways than he thinks; Loki must take the initiative, to the benefit of his own body, his throne, his mental sanity, but especially of his eternal happiness, for which it's essential to get Thor back and put an end to this useless torture.

(Oh, what got into him? Why did he start worrying about marriage politics?)

Showing up with the right cards will be sufficient. It's the reason why he left that manuscript behind: so that, in the moment of truth, Thor will know to what extent Loki is serious and will welcome him with open arms. Thor still loves him. Will always love him.

He has sworn to.

But... but. The Golden Line would be much more than a symbol, if closed now – Loki knows that the head healer tells the truth. His body will conceive.

That is no joking matter.

Loki observes his reflection on the solid ice of the walls and finds himself haggard. He's terrified. He's not ready to have a child, he'll never be, and that fear is complicated by an inextricable tangle of old perceptions, preconceptions and traditions. What his old enemies will say. (_Argr. Ergi._) What would happen if the life shown to him by the Sleep of the Norns reached him through time and incarnations. (Mother of monsters.) What his child will say someday, when Loki disappoints them too many times...

He cannot engender anyone now. Probably he has no right to, even.

And he's a man, he's never really stopped seeing himself as one–

But then, what to do with Thor, how to convince him without using the Line? Unless...

He lifts his head, moving his gaze on the spaces and scant furniture of the old study while he thinks frantically.

Thor doesn't know anything of the situation. He doesn't even know the ceremony's whole ritual, because there was but a mention of it in the volume. Only _he_ knows about it, because he alone safeguards codexes thought lost.

Loki feels his spirits lift. He can temporize. He will show Thor the Line, he'll be joined with him before the entire universe but avoid being taken like a woman until doing so will be safe. Using magic as prevention could be insufficient and he's taking no risks.

He'll need quite the force of will, considering the state he's in, but he has done much more difficult things and he will succeed this time as well, because like this he'll win. No more Járnsaxa around, a yearned-for union and no children. Thor won't suspect anythimg.

It's the perfect plan.

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III

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.

Járnsaxa sees the book and, at sunset, the sky is streaked with ethereal lights.

It would be the perfect moment to go find Thor, he thinks. With the ideal mood, intimate and romantic. But time passes fast while he looks out the balcony, filled with a strange sense of foreboding.

The second night, his resolve is stronger. He ignores the strangeness of the auroras and decides to go, because fortune favours the bold. He slips away on the roofs and tracks down by memory the architecture of the royal apartments, climbing the ledges and smooth spires of the Válaskjálf (anyone who learns to scale Jötunheim's glaciers never forgets how to climb without falling). It's not a long journey, anyway. And when he arrives he even has a welcome delegation of reception.

Thor heard him approach. He's standing under the central arch of the terrace, Gungnir in a fist and an astounded expression on his face. He watches Járnsaxa jump down on the floor, then props the spear against the wall and moves forward, opening his mouth.

Járnsaxa kisses him before Thor can scold him. And before anything can interrupt them he pushes him iback nside the chamber, clumsily down the steps. It's the fourth day since Loki-King saw them through the mirror: if they're still alive, they might as well make the most of it.

He lifts his arms and encircles Thor's neck, elbows on his formidable shoulders, chest against his chest to push him against one of the little columns supporting the inner arch. For a few moments, the kiss is reciprocated. His body comes to life.

Then Thor gently pushes him away.

When Járnsaxa open his eyes, he is looking outside, beyond the terrace. Járnsaxa follows his gaze and holds his breath, because the auroras are multiplying; they blaze with almost blinding an intensity. There are torches on the streets and shapes leaning out of the city's windows.

The cold, too, has intensified, enough to be perceptible on his Jötun skin. Thor's breath is visible.

"Is it you?", Járnsaxa asks.

'Luck or change. Joy or dismay', said his _geta _when they saw auroras, and in a way or another he was always right.

Thor shakes his head.

"What is happening, then? I thought that Ýmir's Manes didn't exist in Asgard."

"Indeed" Thor says, brow furrowed. "It's very unusual. Very."

He takes a deep breath, and when he goes on his tone is the resolute one of someone who has made a decision.

"Járnsaxa", he looks at him, laying a hand on his shoulder, "would you go and find my mother, please? I will go to the palace _seiðrmaðr_. We need their counsel."

_Now?_, he almost answers, disappointed.

But Thor seems worried. Járnsaxa slowly lowers his arms, letting him go.

"Where do you want me to bring her? Here?"

"The old observatory. I showed it to you, do you remember the way?"

"Yes."

It's the prototype of Heimdall's observatory, a tower opened thousands of years ago to all directions at the Válaskjálf's summit. Luckily they're not far from it.

"I thank you."

Járnsaxa peers at him for a moment, body struggling to calm under the simple copper-coloured tunic; then he nods and gets going, this time exiting – proudly – from the main door.

Something isn't right, and it's not just Asgard's sky.

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IV

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It's the second night of auroras, and it's much colder outside. The galaxies are hidden from view.

To Thor's senses, the atmosphere feels peaceful, but if he tries and take control of it to disperse the auroras, it doesn't answer and reveals... a buzz of energy. A potential. For what? Waiting for which spark?

He's watching the phenomenon with rising worry from the threshold to the terrace when he hears a noise and, an instant later, Járnsaxa enter in his line of vision, jumping from ledge to legde of the palace with an equilibrist's agility.

Thor frees himself of Gungnir and barely has the time to open his mouth, alarmed. Járnsaxa reaches him in a rush, grabs his face between his own two hands and kisses him, using that impetus to push him backwards, inside the antechamber. They stumble on the steps. Distracted, Thor gives all his attention to keeping them both on their feet and it takes him a while before he realizes that he's reciprocating the kiss with some enthusiasm, Járnsaxa dangling from his neck despite the considerable height he possesses.

_No._

He has to make an effort not to brusquely push him away.

If Loki knew. If Loki saw – he, who has eyes everywhere...

And his gaze strays again towards the sky.

"Járnsaxa..."

When Járnsaxa has gone looking for his mother, Thor rubs his face, tired. He hopes there are no bad news. He hopes it's just a passing atmospheric phenomenon, born from a benign mistake of Yggdrasil's rotations. And he hopes with all, all his heart that Loki comes back to him soon.

His mind has always been an invaluable help, and his company a comfort he misses.

He's just finished thinking it that a rustle of paper sounds across the room. There, on the shelf of the escritoire. A small roll or parchment is curling upon the ebony wood, coils of magic estinguishing themselves on its edges with blue flares. Thor approaches, recognizing the spell. It should be unusable, with Asgard's barriers active... unless there is a breach or, more probably, Loki has found a loophole. But why contact him this way when they have the mirrors?

Touching the parchment is enough to know it doesn't come from him. This magic has another identity.

Forehead creased, he opens the message; just a few words.

_Allfather, my king and lord must know spring. Use this information with wisdom, when you talk with him. A._

Thor does not even linger on the signature.

'To know spring'. It's an old expression of the nomadic Jötunheim, indicating the calving of the herds. If it weren't for the whole meaning of the sentence Thor would burst out laughing, because it's anacronistic and absolutely ridiculous, considering whom it's referring to. But its implications...

'Must', it says, not 'can'. Thor leans his lower back against the drawers of the escritoire and reflects, making his way through confusion and tiredness.

_Must_. He thinks about what he knows of the Jötnar, of their nature and their traditions. In their land, fertility is a gift covered in sacred tones. It's also a sort of compulsion, sometimes... mostly at thaw, if the rumors about the oriental tribes' celebrations are true. They say that not giving in to the need to procreate is a torture for the body. They _say_.

Thor heard way too many vulgar jokes when he was a recruit in the barracks, but the Jötnar are reserved about these topics and, for the love of diplomacy, he certainly didn't investigate. And he never had the impression that Loki... unless up until now he didn't–

He shakes his head, disconcerted. Loki isn't a boy, has been a man for a very long time; it can't be the first time.

_But he's an ívidja too, _his deductive side replies, _different. And he spent centuries in another form._

Moreover, that 'must' might allude to the necessity of solidifying the alliance between Aesir and Jötnar once and for all. What better token than a common progeny?

He puts the message down. If it was really sent by Angantýr, Utgarð's chief healer, it's truthful. A quick if not easy spell clears his doubts. And for a moment his blood flares with jealousy at the thought of Loki in that state among great warriors, the very same who would gladly remove Thor from Jötunheim's future. Then, he tries to calm down and think. How should he use the information he was given? To negotiate? To put Loki in a tight corner?

(As if he weren't ready to fly to him and mark his territory at any price.)

The parchment crumples between his fingers. Thor is surprised that Angantýr has managed to send it at a worlds' distance, but he's surely grateful for it. It's precious knowledge.

An omen of revolution among rough seas.

The message burns against his palm, curling until it disappears. Thor has no more time to wonder. He knows he's not alone even before the noise coming from the external world becomes muffled, deadened by magic. He turns, letting the cinders fall to the floor.

The room is all aglow with auroras and lanterns. His heart beats faster.

"Show yourself."

Loki emerges from the shadows flanking the axes' _armoire_. He's wearing his cloak of black feathers, closed from throat to feet, and has his Jötun looks, his face... marked?

They look at each other without a word. Then Loki lifts his chin and, with a haughty gesture, throws the cloak open behind his shoulders.

In the flare of the lanterns, his body lights up.

He's almost naked: a _kjálta _of silvery fur wraps his pelvis under the belly, he's got jewels on every finger and every little spot of his body is painted with silver. The coronation as king of Jötunheim had showed off his _kýn _lines, the signs with which the Jötnar identify themselves and which they pass down to their progeny, to glorify his right to the throne. These, instead, are the lines of Life. They follow the cardinal forces and flows of the body, and only a _seiðrmadr_ is capable of tracing them. Thor wonders who had the honour of assisting Loki. Perhaps he traced them himself.

His bust catches the glow fully and Thor sees it. It starts from the center of the forehead, under a ruby pendant, descends between the eyes encircled by symbols, along the nose and over the mouth to the throat, and then down still, on the chest, where it broadens. Its pure trace ends at the center of Loki's belly, flanked by silver bands, to branch out into thin cirri all over his pelvis.

Thor knows those marks. He has already seen them illuminated.

It's the Golden Line of the kings.

"Valorous warrior and king" Loki says, voice low and ardent eyes. "Thor, son of Odin and Frigga, we greet you."

He advances slowly. Thor holds his breath.

"We, Loki-King, are here to do you great honour. We offer you the priviledge of being a companion to us, the duty of being our support, and the right of giving us heirs in the future... without competition." Ritual lines. Loki inhales, the only sign of his nerves. "This we have said, to this we await and demand an answer."

There will be no fights, no public ceremony. Only the accomplished fact: the king appearing before his subjects in full panoply of royal coupling, already happened, lines distorted on his body.

In that very moment, Thor _wants_. He wants Loki and wants a _child_. It was a nameless desire before, far in the future, until he deciphered that message and saw with his own eyes the Golden Line – the line that his hands will ruin while encircling his consort's hips. It's within reach. He can have everything: he just has to accept.

He can't help a surge of affection at the thought that Loki will never stop breaking the rules. Jötunheim's assembly of elders will have a stroke for the surprise. Thor's council won't be happy either, since they take state matrimony very seriously, especially the interplanetary ones, _especially_ the king of Asgard's. Especially if they're with the king of Jötunheim.

Thor meets Loki's gaze, but something holds him back. Through the mists of desire, he has enough lucidity left to understand that Loki was planning this little sortie for a few days. It was he who left that illuminated codex on his desk... three days after Járnsaxa arrived in Asgard, the day after they saw each other in the mirrors. Angantýr must have known, that's why he sent the message.

The Golden Line is quite the step, an incredible step, so Thor looks under the glitter of gold.

The tactical move is easy to spot. Loki is making the strongest move when Járnsaxa's threat is higher. Thor has to admit that he chose a shocking one, in his best style. It's impossible, however, that he went from their political separation to the most total and lasting celebration of their union.

On one side, Thor is happy to have brought him to accept their wedding; on the other, he has to fight rising irritation.

"Are you really giving me everything?" he asks.

Loki's hesitation is infinitesimal. "Yes." And then, cutting. "Is it enough?"

Thor smiles. "It's all I ever desired. And you'll receive likewise from me..." He stretches an arm out. "Come here."

Slowly, almost incredulous, Loki approaches.

"And give us a child."

It's as if Loki turned to stone. His right hand remains in mid-air over Thor's, fingers strained, while his face becomes a mask.

Thor closed a fist over his.

"It's the moment, isn't it? Now it will be easy. Your body is ready."

He won't settle for a symbol. If Loki is offering everything, he'll have to give _everything_. He lays eyes on Loki's belly and his heart beats madly in his chest.

Loki pales under a layer of frost. "How do you know?"

It's true, all true.

"Does is matter? What is important is that I won't accept any less... for your health, too."

"You conceited bastard" Loki hisses, livid, all seduction disappeared. "What do you think you know?"

"Either this or nothing" Thor repeats, gentler, trying to draw him near. "I'm serious. It's time we belong to each other as we should: completely. Is that such a terrible notion?"

After a long, silent war of stares, Loki whispers: "You're cruel."

And perhaps he's right, but Thor has never know but victory in battle. This one – especially this one – will be his, because in reality it will be _theirs_.

"You cannot ask me this. I'm not ready."

_Maybe I'll never be_, is what he doesn't say.

"Seeing me capitulate on the marriage isn't enough?" he shouts.

"Six centuries on Jötunheim's throne and you haven't reconciled yourself with the Jötnar's nature?"

"It's not just that – though I'd like to see _you_ spawn whelps" Loki snaps. "The truth is that I haven't been a good brother, even less a good son, and if we want to talk about good examples – I haven't had those, either!"

"You're talking about my father." His answer is a bitter sneer Thor hadn't seen in a long time. "But you forget that neither of us is him." He tries to pull him closer. "And I will be at your side every day, to prevent you from making mistakes, to have you preventing me from making mistakes."

"As if we had the power to avoid them all!"

"Then we'll remedy."

But Loki moves backwards, looking at him with the air of a cornered stag.

"Don't ask me to. Not now."

Thor hesitates.

"You don't feel worthy of it" he says. It's a revelation he should have had a lot sooner, after all. He shakes his head. "Why? My father's shortcomings don't reflect on you, Loki, and all you had to resolve you resolved a long time ago."

Loki looks at him with a contorted visage.

"What if I fail? If I ruin your child?" he asks. "If I bear a monster? Have you already forgotten what I was in that old life, the children I had?"

"It won't happen again" Thor says, and the self-assurance in his voice is so strong that, in another situation, Loki would surely be convinced.

"Wanting something doesn't make it _true_."

"It won't happen again."

Loki stares at him, eyes dilated, chest expanding and contracting with difficulty. The fists he's clenched against his hips are trembling and Thor is sure they will fight with ferocity, here, right now, destroying everything like in the old times.

But even though a cry of pure frustration erupts from Loki's throat, it's on himself that he moves. He spins around brusquely and returns inside the shadowed line of the room.

"Loki–!"

Too late. He's already vanished, swallowed by darkness.

Thor lets his arm fall and sighs. Then he brushes a hand through his hair, pulling.

Damn it. _Damn it_. They were so close.

Outside, the aurora borealis dances over Asgard until dawn.

.

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V

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.

How does Thor know–who betrayed the secret–

In front of Loki, a torch pierces the bronzed darkness of the corridor. He remembers Thor's room. He sees again his loving, implacable face, the proffered hand.

Why did it end like this?

He stops, and the combative ire abandons him together with a sigh. Only the shock of having been caught by surprise remains, with its cutting sensation of vulnerability. He detests it. He constantly thinks himself immune to it and, invariably, someone or something takes him back to earth, mocking his arrogance.

_Thor's aim was not to mock you_, says a voice in the recesses of his mind. _He offered you a future..._

_On his terms_, he thinks, growling. _Ever and only on his terms–_

_And didn't you try and do the same? On such an important matter, no less..._

_It was a carefully considered decision._

_But which of the two choices is the most sensible?_

Another growl climbs up his throat.

In that moment he doesn't want to be robbed of his anger; it's his only defense, in this body that quivers for the touch and semen of–

He turns towards the wall and cuts the air with an arm movement, opening a passage in Asgard's very fabric. He'll go back to Jötunheim, vent and, when he's tired, maybe he'll be able to reflect on everything dispassionately, at last. But his plans are short-lived. He slips inside the interdimensional breach with a sure foot – and slams his face into a barrier.

He staggers backwards, keeping a hand over his nose. His back hits the bronzed wall of the corridor.

"Ugh."

What's that? A barrier? There?

He has been checking Asgard's protections with Thor for centuries; they recognize him and cannot rebel against him. And if... it were that imbecile trying to hold him here? But he never had any finesse in controlling barriers and such.

He opens his eyes, still massaging his nose. The tears left on his eyelashes refract the torches' light, obfuscating the point where he opened the breach. He tries again farther, then changes plan, then exits the Válaskjálf. Nothing. Passing through is impossible: the access is barred.

_What is happening?_

A thought occurs to him: maybe it's his fault; maybe his magic has gone crazy to gift him with a last humiliation to this madness. Surely Asgard isn't isolated – Heimdall would have noticed it.

Maybe he should go to the Observatory, depart from there and put an end to it all. But there is a strange disturbance in Asgard's magical weave. A familiar disturbance, which fills his mouth with a bitter taste even though he's not able to give it a name. What is it? How could he not feel it sooner?

Then his eyes finally _see_. He looks around, searches for the horizon.

A sky burning with green and purple looms over him.

.


	12. Morning came and vanished without()

**Notes:** I'm so sorry for the long wait! I hope you enjoy the chapter :)

* * *

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**Morning came without bringing daylight**

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I

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**T**he sky is almost as bright as the Bifröst; the night grows old and the auroras keep on rippling upon Asgard like banners on a vast encampment.

Curious people roam the streets, others lean out of the windows with their children, surrounded by clouds of breath. It's magnificently cold. Loki appreciates it with instinctive relief, but perceives its anomaly: these are neither Ýmir's Manes nor Midgard's _aurora borealis_ – first because they're not on either world, and second because the sensation they're giving him doesn't resemble anything he's experienced in centuries of explorations.

His gaze runs along the perimeter of the garden surrounding the Válaskjálf, toward one of the bastions, then ascends and searches beyond the roofs and towers of the capital. The sea. Something's telling him it's the sea he should be looking at.

In that moment, Thor voice reaches him.

It's not calling for him; it comes from above. Thor seems deep in discussion. But Loki's body vibrates like a harpsichord's struck wire and his steps halt brusquely, accompanied by just as brusque an awareness. He's still all painted.

With a curse, he retreats inside the shadows and closes the cloak's folds on his chest, whispering a spell to deflect others' looks.

He's so distracted that he almost doesn't realize it: magic works. It's the interdimensional space that is blocked, then; and be it only around Asgard or along the entire Tree, it's _not_ a good thing.

He should verify right away by using the secret land ways, but it would take too much time. There are more important things to do, before. He must prioritize.

He sends a message of alert to Heimdall, then turns back to the palace, measuring it like one measures an unpleasant foe. With that phenomenon Thor will be active, and the idea of meeting him by chance provokes in Loki an anxious rage. He must talk with his mother, though, must warn her and investigate with her on the current events. And, above all, he must wash away that stupid paint.

Looking around, he takes the path leading to the hidden entries of the palace.

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II

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"A _seiðr _storm that collided with our atmosphere. There are currents of pure energy, among Yggdrasil's branches... Odin knew them well."

It's the confirmation Thor wanted to hear; it matches his sensations and a few tales of Loki's. The reference to his father causes him a stab of torn nostalgia.

"It could be the reason why I have no effect on the elements it moves." It's energy in a raw state, extraneous. "But I have no memory of similar phenomena."

"They are rare. It happened only once since you were born. It was less intense that this one, but..."

"Are you sure it was the same thing?"

Frigga smiles, a bit rueful. "My magic is not what it was, my son – but yes, I'm rather sure of it."

Around them, among the pillars which support the tower bay and the roof, gold astronomical instruments are inspecting the kingdom, oscillating and orbiting on lean arms amongst models of planets, epicycles and shiny metals. On the city's side, their engraved surfaces catch the flashes of light coming from the streets and the canals, thus transforming into kaleidoscopes of runes. A palace _seiðrmaðr_, a Vanir man, observes the sky through the graduated lens of a telescope.

"Nothing from Heimdall?" Járnsaxa asks, abandoning his respectful silence.

Thor nods. "All is calm at the Observatory, and so beyond our borders. Only..."

"Only?"

Thor stops the movement of his arms halfway, hoping it doesn't seem the shrug he was about to give, and wishes he hadn't introduced the topic.

"Only some turbulence in Jötunheim", he says, carefully avoiding his mother's gaze. He clears his throat. "Nothing new... it's the storm season. We'll keep the sky under observation and, as a precaution, we'll have Heimdall activate the Great Shield."

The _seiðrmaðr _with them approve; when it's evident that nothing will be added to the discussion, they begin to converse among them to decide the turns for the watch.

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III

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His mother is not in her chambers. She might be meditating under Fensalir's pergolas but, at this hour, it's more probable that she's up for the astronomical emergency. He will look for her soon.

Her absence is good luck in which he hadn't thought to hope (another oversight): he'll be able to clean up without having to explain why he's going around decked out like that. He makes his way toward the baths, unfastening his cloak. Invading her personal spaces doesn't make him feel guilty; what is visible in these rooms is only what is permitted to be seen, even by her children. Especially by her nosy children.

While he washes away the pigments from his body, he tries not to think of anything.

The sound of Thor's voice, naturally, is the first thing he remembers.

_"And give us a child–"_

He hits the water of the tub with a fist, splashing it everywhere.

He should have known they would come to this. He should have known. _Thor never learned to live without exceeding._

Things will have to change, because Loki has had way too many crazy turns in his life. Oh, they will change. But, before, the most pressing emergency.

He gets up, out of the water, and dries the baths with an efficient gesture. After checking and dressing himself he's out of the apartments, in the semi-dark corridors, feather cloak billowing beyond his shoulders and _seiðr_ listening to everything, gliding on every surface, crossing empty spaces.

All is normal, except for the background buzz he already heard from the gardens. He stops to reflect. Maybe it's not really an emergency. Maybe it's only a new manifestation of Asgard; after all she, too, ages and evolves.

.

Or maybe it's an interference of the interplanetary spaces, like his mother said.

He finds the little magic council at the end of his investigations, up at the astronomers' tower, Asgard's ancient Observatory. He studies the participants and listens carefully, invisible among the shadows. Everyone seems calm. It truly could be a false alarm... he will know when he sees his mother's reaction to the news of the interdimensional blockade, if it's still there when he tells her. Loki has a feeling that it will. Maybe.

He's confused.

He tries to ignore Járnsaxa's presence, so near and vulnerable to tempt him, and lets the assembly leave the tower without revealing himself.

He looks at the skyline. It's almost dawn: the horizon's contour is starting to become visible. Slowly, the auroras vanish to be replaced by a clear, warm sky.

A little afterwards, the interdimensional space is still inaccessible, confirming his suspicions. And his mother is asleep.

In his existence Loki has spent even weeks without sleeping, caught by the frenzy of a discovery, of a plot, by danger; it's why he succeeded where so many failed. He could ignore the fatigue and continue with his research while the others rest. But when he slips into a desert apartment and sits down to reflect, the battle and the stress of the last days reach him like wolves in the night. The background buzz is leaving him dazed.

His temple touches the wall and the world fades before he can react.

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IV

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Thor conquers his chambers at daybreak.

He bolts the doors, shuts the curtaining, tosses Gungnir on the sofa and undresses with a gesture, letting magic undo buttons and laces for him. Then he throws himself back-first on the bed, exhausted.

A quarter of an hour must have passed when he realizes that he's staring at the ceiling. The canopy cover is still absent. He's decided: he won't have it replaced.

He forces his eyes to close and sees the Golden line again, the magnificent opulence of Loki's body dripping with light and tempting intentions. And, as always, deceptive. He wishes he could talk with him.

He rubs his face. He's too tired to sleep; he has too many thoughts in the head.

Loki has removed himself from the premises, obviously. Thor felt him near for a few moments at the old observatory, when the conversation was about to come to an end – it's been long since he learned to recognize his presence, even if Loki hides with _seiðr_. Practice and sixth sense. If Loki knew to what extent Thor has perfected that intuition, he would be irritated, proud and then spurred into finding new subterfuges.

He has no intention of telling him, of course.

Loki will be in Jötunheim by now; or he might be investigating the auroras alone. In both cases, Thor will have to study a winning approach before going to look for him. (Because he's sure of it, this time Loki's reatreat is not a strategic retreat.)

Without him noticing, his life has gone back to being a disaster.

.

Slowly, desires and worries transform into a labyrinthine vortex that pulls him deep down, consigning him to sleep.

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V

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The children run away into the light of early afternoon, laughing. Járnsaxa watches them disappear at the end of the hall with a bit of sadness.

He lifts his hair from his neck to find some relief, making his coral clips jingle. It's very hot, especially after the unusually cool night, and the humidity exacerbates his weariness. He stayed awake almost until dawn, slept few hours. Maybe he should go back to resting. Today there doesn't seem to be much to lose (except Thor – perhaps the night's weight will be what convinces him to come to his bed, even just to sleep).

He sighs, thinking that they've got some questions and answers to exchange.

While he's busy pondering, yawning next to the columns depicting Svártalfheim's battles, an echo sends him voices of bureaucrats. They seem to be just over the bend, and coming toward him.

"Scholar Járnsaxa? Have you seen Ýdalir's Scholar, there's a footnote of the utmost importance–"

He opens his eyes wide, swearing under his breath. Asgard's academics are even more boring than the Ljosálfar patriarchs. Járnsaxa looks quickly around himself, recognizes a small door and slips inside with the greatest discretion, closing it behind his back.

On the other side greets him the silent greatness of the dais where, in a shining mass, All-seeing Hliðskjálf dominates. His smile comes back. Thor is here: he can see his arm from the threshold. With a last look to the door Járnsaxa approaches him, naked feet projecting blue shadows on the floor. The hall is a comfort, cool and almost dark at the end of the colonnades. At a more accurate look, there are no guards nor pages around.

"Good day, Thor." Járnsaxa passes the barrier made by the back of the throne. "Did you have a pleasant morning?"

Thor groans and sinks into the throne, eyes closed, legs open in almost an obscene way; at his feet lie crumpled papers.

"Hmm" Járnsaxa says, amused, continuing toward the edge of the stairs that lead to the hall's main body. "If nothing else, it's done... time for deserved rest. And now that I look better" he adds, deciding to tempt luck again, "we are here free and completely, gloriously alone..."

He feels Thor's scorching gaze on his back.

"Yes", Thor answers. And then, with another voice: "Completely alone."

It's not Thor's voice.

Járnsaxa turns just in time to see Thor's features melt and let Loki Laufeyson's sharp lineaments, horns and blue skin emerge. Of the honest, bright creatures he loves, only the ceremonial cloak remains, flaunted like a trophy pelt. On Jötunheim's king's shoulders it seems a bloody screen.

In the distance, the entryways' bolts spring. Loki leans his chin on the back of a hand and smiles, devoid of warmth.

It looks like he was born to sit on that throne. Despite himself, Járnsaxa finds he's incapable of moving.

"Shapeshifter."

He knew, in a corner of his mind, but to see with his own eyes such a rare ability–

_Dangerous._

Loki-King keeps on smiling. "Very perceptive."

Járnsaxa's heart struggles inside his chest. But he's safe, he tells himself. This is Asgard's core, dear to Thor and Frigga Fiörgynnsdottir, and Laufeyson wouldn't dare touch him where they could find out.

(He dared quite worse in the past.)

"Hello, Jønirson. What a coincidence meeting here."

.

Loki does not love frequenting Asgard in his real skin. As an Áes the climate is more bearable, people recognize him, he spares himself a quantity of hostile looks; and certain conditioning is never really overcome. But this time he will display it with ostentation, because there's a collarless Jötun roaming Váláskjalf's hallways.

If Loki was ready to undersell the Allfather's dynastical bed to a representative figure – if he was determined not to bend on this, and to win – he will never leave Thor to the creature that has already had him for who knows how many lives. Járnsaxa, clever dependable Járnsaxa loved and made him a father in the nebulous dream of the Norns. He looks at Thor with ardent eyes, without being refused. He could take him again.

Enough, now.

"What a coincidence meeting here", he says, sprawled on the throne. "I didn't think that diplomatic visits lasted so long."

The interloper understands, hesitates; maybe imagines of challenging him openly. Loki prays he will.

But Járnsaxa recovers, offering him a bow that puts him almost on his knees, head bent.

"Loki-King. The honour you do me by remembering my name is great."

He certainly doesn't lack a tongue. Loki lifts his chin and lowers his hand, contemplating the idea of ripping it off of him. Who knows what he said... and _did_ to Thor.

"I would never forget an envoy of dear Gerð's", he says. He arches his eyebrows. "Why so silent? Does shapeshifting upset you? Or maybe you're surprised at finding me here?"

"Your powers leave me in awe."

Loki narrows his eyes. Then pushes with magic to throw him to the ground.

But he encounters a barrier and Járnsaxa manages to stay upright by folding on one knee, a grunt on his lips.

Oh.

Loki laughs, eyes following the runes that reveal themselves on Járnsaxa's body.

"Freya, what a dear" he says. "She always liked to leave around little games for me." He considers Járnsaxa. "But what happens if I unravel all the pretty links of her chain mail?"

He gets up with a fluid movement, letting Thor's cloak fall down to the throne. No reply, except for a rising tension. He moves, keeping at the right distance, and circles Járnsaxa slowly.

"Do you truly think" he whispers, bending a little, "that I'd renounce the bond with Thor Odinson to leave him to someone like you?"

The other swallows and cannot dissemble it. "Thor belongs to himself. He needs no one's permission."

How dare he?

Loki stops abruptly and a flare of _seiðr _overflows from his body.

.

Freya's spells protect him from the outburst, but Járnsaxa doesn't want to remain on his knees anymore. The situation is degenerating. He gets up fast, putting some space between them.

Laufeyson is shorter than him, less muscular even as a Jötun, and is not wearing a crown; he should not inspire fear in him. Just beyond the surface of that shell, however, under the feather mantle which absorbs the light, there stirs the chaotic void of a _seiðr_ that any warlock of the universe could only dream of, and a tortuous mind that knows how to use it well.

He's looking at him with rage.

"How dare you be disrespectful to him by using his name?" he hisses.

Járnsaxa shouldn't answer. He knows it, but as good-natured as he is he, too, has a pride susceptible to competition.

"I have his permission, of course."

The light glinting in those eyes chills him. "I see."

"Loki-King–"

Járnsaxa's mouth closes with a twitch, against his will. He cannot move. Struggles to breathe.

Panic tries to overwhelm him.

"What do you want?" Loki asks, after considering him for a while. "You'll find I can be very generous when I so desire."

"If I go away without a word, I imagine" Járnsaxa says, through gritted teeth.

"You'll have what you came for. You care little for love, don't you? I know the likes of you."

Járnsaxa tightens his fingers on his _kjálta_'s cloth.

"Because you're the same?"

_Shut up. Shut up!_

Loki opens to a smile, white and sharp among the tribal lines and the paint crossing them.

"Once. And I have a good memory." He comes nearer. "What are you looking for in Asgard, adventurer? Power, riches?" He tilts his head. "Secrets? I can gift them you with them in abundance."

It's the moment. If Járnsaxa doesn't die here, maybe he'll succeed.

"I can have them with Thor", he replies with difficulty. "And I _want_ Thor."

Loki's condescending smile disappears. Járnsaxa falls to his knees again, and Loki reaches him, bending until their faces almost brush.

"You might have death, instead."

_Seiðr_ ghosts slither around them, condensing into a green miasma that is seen and not seen.

"Do you believe... that this would raise you in his opinion?"

"I believe that there is a multitude of different deaths, and a multitude of ways to make them happen" Loki says, resuming his walk to talk above Járnsaxa's neck, nape, in his other ear. "Don't overestimate my change. I don't play fair, just a little less dirty, and only a few benefit from my sense of honour."

The light coming from the glass windows flickers on his cheeks. The paints light up, forming readable lines and runes.

Sacred runes of silver. Vital lines.

That line.

Abruptly, Járnsaxa remembers and it takes his breath away.

.

Járnsaxa stops trembling and stares fixedly at him, almost hypnotized.

"Those runes..."

Loki furrows his brow. "What runes?"

"The ones on your face."

Loki recoils with a jerk. Norns. Impossible.

But the insolent is not lying: he forgot to wash his face, just the most exposed part of the body. He touches himself on impulse and is filled with a deep mortification.

"Never seen ceremonial paints?" he asks, trying to use a casual tone.

"Not those", Járnsaxa answers. "Not the Golden Line."

He really recognized it.

The things he must know. The things he must be realizing now. Loki does not want to think about them.

"What can _you_ know of sacred traditions."

Seeing his difficulty, Járnsaxa seems to recover. He addresses Loki with remarkable audacity.

"You forget that I come from a tribe of the far north. We pass down the history of many paintings." He _approaches_. Loki sizes him up and arches his eyebrows, receiving a half-smile. "You're unwise to show yourself. People are unpredictable... I could be the one to break your Line, haven't you thought of this? We're alone, there's no competition. In an instant I'd have you... and with you, also Thor. _Forever_ Thor."

Loki bears it for a moment, then burst out laughing.

"You'd have me?" he exclaims, grinning. "_I_ would have _you_, Jønirson. You'd be farther from Thor than you are now – supposing you were able to catch me unprepared" and, with vaguely an obscene gesture, he opens his feather cloak and indicates his lower abdomen. No painted Line, there.

"Anyone can be caught unprepared."

Loki must admit it: he's got guts, even if little good sense.

"I'm not scared of you."

_I don't think you truly know who you're up against._

With a wrist movement Loki unfastens Laevateinn from his _kjàlta _and wakes her. Laevateinn is a sword and a ceremonial staff, a magic-soaked relic that was forged in ancient times by Vanaheim's _seiðr_ masters and that was handed down, from generation to generation, along Frigga Fyörgynnsdottir's genealogical tree until she reached him. She's a shapeshifter. They're made for each other.

The innocuous _uru _cylinder he was bearing at the hip elongates itself with the fluidity of water and, an instant later, incises with its pike-like point the floor before the impudent's feet. Járnsaxa becomes cinder-grey.

So little does last the bravery of social climbers.

"You cannot kill me" he stutters. "I'm about to be adopted by the sovereigns. I'll be prince of Álfheim."

Oh, please.

"You can do better, courtesan."

"I'm not lying, Loki-King. I lie not!"

No, he doesn't seem to be lying. But this would be an unequivocal political move – unequivocally stupid – on Freyr's part.

"_Really_."

Járnsaxa has the good sense to nod only. Loki tilts his head.

"Then congratulations are in order" he comments, and not even he knows what he's about to do. "Allow me to give you a gift."

Járnsaxa will react, he can read that in his every muscle. It will be vilification of the royal person.

Fortunately something interrupts them. The western entry booms once, twice, shaking, and the door hinges give with a clang. Its carved wood panels crash to the floor in a hail of splinters, skidding to a stop meters from the wall. From the threshold Gungnir, Thor and Fandral emerge, advancing accompanied by a guard.

In a flash, Loki withdraws Laevateinn and makes it disappear.

"What's happening here?" Thor asks, menacing, then surprised. "Loki?"

He feels hot, cold, then hot again, but doesn't lose his composure. Thor has seen Járnsaxa and his expression has clouded over.

"What is happening?"

"I was chatting with Járnsaxa-subject."

"About what, if I may?" Thor leaves his companions behind. Fandral seems happy of it; he's got the air of someone who'd rather be at the opposite side of town. "And why are all entries barred?"

"Oh, gossip. Right, _Járn_?"

Járnsaxa smiles and nods with gritted his teeth.

"He's not a subject to your crown anymore" Thor says, tired and accusatory in equal parts. He reaches them and speaks to the intruder. "Are you well?"

While Járnsaxa nods again Loki looks at one, then at the other and points Thor, approaching slowly. It's incredible. Just a few hours ago Thor told him–asked him to–and now he's ignoring him while advising that quim to get some rest–

The temperature of the room drops. Suddenly Thor turns to speak softly in his face, jaw tense.

"You may just stop it."

"Stop what?" Loki asks, tilting his head, all honey and hemlock.

"You _know_."

"Being bewitched by the first person who comes along?"

Thor throws a furtive glance to the bystanders. "Of making a spectacle of yourself."

"The only one making a spectacle of himself, here, is you" Loki says, cold and clear. "Like a boy with seed-stained sheets."

Járnsaxa draws back, keeping them well in sight. Yet Thor has no eyes but for Loki, now. He flares his nostrils, blue eyes lit up by anger, and Loki's rage surges like a fire to meet it, full of joyous violence.

_"Loki_–"

A thunderous explosion shakes the palace.

.

It was no thunder.

They look at each other, among shaking walls and furnishings: Thor's expression is what confirms Loki's suspicions. Then a feeling of oppression comes.

Clash put aside, they turn around and run to the end of the hall, emerging onto the terrace which marks the Válaskjálf's middle point in height. They lean over the parapet. The city appears peaceful, all normal. But... over the coast the sky is crossed by a quaver alike to a mirage's: palpable undulations of the atmosphere distorting space perception, and intensifying before their very eyes.

The undulations rise and suddenly curve toward space, releasing energy.

The shock wave reaches the first dykes and the freights at the mouth of the canals, damaging them. A growing buzz pervades the air. It becomes a violent vibration. And then, in the space of few instants, the sky darkens.

Cries rise from the streets, a fleeing stampede mingles with a frantic race to take up arms. The first reconnaissance ships take off, ready, followed by the armoured ones. The magical lasers of the towers change coordinates, redirected to the sea.

The stormy black spreads rapidly, unstoppable. Soon Asgard will be in the dark if the _seiðrmaðr _don't do something. Head thrown back, Loki observes with his heart in the throat, struggling to understand.

He's never seen something like this in his life, except–recently–

"It's not possible" he says, choked.

Thor grabs his arm, Gungnir coruscating light in the other fist. "What is it?"

"Out mother–have her taken to safety! It's a–"

The sky splits with a whipping crash.

From the gigantic, widening black eye six horned, serpent's heads emerge.

.

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* * *

Please feel free to point out any typos or mistakes!


	13. Creatures and destinies centuries-old

**Notes:** Six months... I'm so sorry for the long wait! There was NaNoWriMo, then the holidays, then I lost a beloved pet and now I've got a move on my hands. Talk about starting a year with the right foot.  
But! At least this is a huge chapter, so you'll have your fill of fun (I hope). Fighting and feels ahead :D

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

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**Creatures and destinies centuries-old**

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For an instant, Asgard halts.

Then its dimensional weave deforms. Under the creature's mighty push, accompanied by a blast wave that reaches and shakes the first defensive Shield on the coast, the crack in the sky widens. From the dark depths of its void is born a lead-grey vortex, the currents of which freeze the sea's waves. With silver horns, white scales and grey crests upon the vertebral outline, the reptile reflects the dying light. It stretches out its six sinuous necks beyond the breach's eye and howls with voices of typhoons.

Thor lifts Gungnir, horrified.

"What is _that_?"

Loki knows what it is. He'd rather not, but he knows. It's a hydra.

The Hydra, the scourge of Blárhnöggr.

The immense beast roars against the ships attacking it, unconcerned by the magic and projectiles they're hurling at it. Then, with a movement that shakes all Asgard, it grabs the edges of the breach and flows into the sea, breaking through the ice.

Deep whirpools form right away, tornadoes touch down from the black sky. Flashes, thunders and lightning cleave the horizon.

In the streets the people flees, heading for the fortified houses and the emergency shelters. It's panic.

"To the arms! To the arms!" Thor orders, war armor materializing over his body. "Deploy the emergency troops, call the _seiðrmaðr _and the Valkyries!" He turns to Fandral. "Give order to take the elderly and children to safety, and find Sif! Tell her to protect my mother!"

Fandral nods, then runs away.

Thor points Gungnir forward, forehead beading with sweat while he tries to get the kingdom's weather back under his control. The breach in the sky narrows, starting to close. The hydra uncoils its imposing body.

Even though instinct tells him to react, Loki cannot but be witness to the disaster. Once exposed, the hydra is ten times more impressive than how it looked on Jötunheim, half-buried under snow and mists: it's gigantic. It resounds with so strong an energy that it interferes with Asgard's urban magic. Even off, the magical torches of the lighting system emit flames in bursts, while the autonomous water transports lose their routes.

"Loki!"

Interference. The barrier that prevented him from opening a passage to Jötunheim. That was the reason. It was that primitive _seiðr_'s fire the thing blocking the interdimensional space... because the hydra had occupied it. Somehow it managed to cleave the unfathomable depth of Jötunheim's heart and fled through Yggdrasil's spaces, eluding the sygil that should have kept it quiescent under the mountain for other millennia. The mere idea of the strength required to manage that feat leaves him breathless.

Asgard has never been so in danger since Malekith's time. It's not capable of facing a menace of such entity.

But it will have to do it somehow, and the fault lies with Loki, who had sworn to himself to never bring her any more adversity. Maybe it's always just a matter of time, with him. Maybe he's always been right, and this is the beginning of Ragnarök. He failed to keep his promises.

Thor grabs him by an arm. "Loki."

They've got no time to talk.

The hydra emerges from the screen of crystals spread by its descent and points toward Asgard. It advances fast, very fast, swimming with powerful motions while the ice pack separating it from the coast shatters. The shuttle ships at sea give chase, others fly against it.

The monster reaches the coastal bastions in a few heartbeats and crashes into the Great Shield raised by Heimdall, provoking a quake that shakes the dry land up to the hills.

Storm waves surge as tall as towers, murky with debris. The Shield blocks them too, letting them flow back into the sea.

The hydra won't manage to break through. The Shield has remained unconquered for centuries, since Loki came home and joined his _seiðr_ with Thor's, Heimdall's and that of ten _seiðkonur _to build it in defense of the entire city. It cannot collapse.

But the hydra isn't alone in its path of destruction. When it pulls back, dazed, snorting icy air, grey tornado trumpets push against the bright dome of the barrier, deforming themselves. The dragon mouths freeze the shield and, under the stress, its surface cracks. Then – under the assault of six armoured heads – collapses.

Not contained anymore, the raging squall expands. The sky blackens up to the Válaskjálf, skimming over its protective cap, clouds and tornadoes running towards Asgard's mountains. Visibility decreases.

To the west, dozens of war ships depart from Widi's hangars. The people keeps on fleeing, separating from the warriors, all heading to the area of the cave in.

In a flash, Thor has Mjölnir in one fist and brandishes Gungnir in the other.

Loki knows he will fly even before seeing the hammer spin. It's enough to tear him from his dismay.

"Wait!"

But Thor has already gone. At a word of power, a quiver runs through the feather cloak Loki is wearing. Then Loki is hawk and takes flight from the terrace's parapet.

He chases Thor through flurries and whirlwinds of rubble, trying to keep an eye on the hydra as well. It's not easy, and they're using the wrong strategy altogether, but in the end he manages to reach him.

He flanks Thor with a furious screech. They're flying over the main canal, fast, headed to the sea. Thor doesn't give sign of hearing him and Loki fears he wants to attack directly. His heart fills with anguish. He mustn't do that, it's too dangerous.

Luckily, when they're close to the point where the hydra broke through the coastal defense, Thor lands on the wobbly roof of a palace.

Here the temperature is much lower than in the city's centre. Ice and snow are clinging to every surface of the district, from the walls to the ruins. At a few spears' range the sea has frozen anew; to the east, the city is enveloped by a white storm. A quick glance over their shoulders reveals that the palace _seiðrmaðr_ are busily working to the auxiliary defenses, erecting buttresses of energy within the shield that protects the Válaskjálf.

Loki transforms back as soon as he touches down, undecided between hissing a tirade and an emergency plan. Thor looks at him, all windblown – then turns his head to the opposite direction with a jerk.

"Barrier!" he shouts, lifting both his arms.

The blizzard is upon them, and from its gusts emerges the hydra, necks as thick as towers stretched forward while war ships strafe it without giving quarter. Loki lifts his hands and joins his magic with Thor's.

The barrier won't hold.

"Let go, Loki" Thor cries. "Retreat!"

But Loki insists, pouring forth more strength, and when the hydra breaks through it's Thor who pulls him away by his cloak.

The horned heads howl, staring at them. Maybe they sense their _seiðr._

"Not there", Loki yells.

Thor moves instinctively toward the palace. Even though he tries to change direction right away, the hydra's mass blocks them: it's so big that it prevents him from manoeuvering and, to avoid its six maws, he must dart backwards by throwing Mjölnir over his shoulder.

Loki emits a frustrated noise and transforms back into a hawk, sliding free from under his arm. A few heartbeats later he's gained altitude thanks to the currents. He concentrates – it's more difficult, in animal form – and by drawing on the Casket of Ancient Winters' energy he materializes one, two, three bright shields between Thor and the dragon.

The hydra's heads shut their eyes, blinded. Their screeches are deafening.

While Thor takes advantage of the diversion to gain a better position, out of the whirlpool of winds and sleet, two assault ships flank the beast and open fire again. Other vehicles converge on the target, among them a few winged ships of the Valkyrie.

"Together!" Thor shouts, pointing Mjölnir at the beast.

They combine their attacks of lightning and magic with the army's fire. At close proximity, the reptile's heads are even more menacing (and dangerous). Each one has a thick armour of white-blue plates on its forehead and jugular, interspersed with coriaceous spikes of what appears to be ice but must be bone, and a veritable forest of horns protecting the entire back of its skull before transforming into the grey crests of the dorsal line. Cutting off even one will be a feat of titanic proportions.

Their attempts only end up enraging them. The hydra turns on itself and spits jets of crystallized air, hitting eight ships and creating bridges of ice among the rooftops. Its bulk negotiates space in the packed residential areas of the city by tearing down walls, breaking down façades and bending towers – and the more it gets near to Asgard's heart the narrower the street become, the more its rage grows. The monster carries with itself a mist of wood and plaster flakes. Valuable stuccoes detach from the palaces, raining upon the retreating soldiers.

Thor and Loki withdraw and alight on the Gates' west tower, just outside the perimeter of the Válaskjálf and the dome shield that defends it.

Thor protects his face with Mjölnir, able at last to take a breath. He seems disbelieving.

"What have you done this time?" he asks. "What the Hel is _that_?"

Loki curls his lip. "I've done nothing. That is the Hydra of Blárhnöggr that was sleeping under the Gastropnir."

Thor turns around. "In Jötunheim?"

"Yes. I believed I had sealed it."

The Valkyries' line of defense is giving, the city is in the throes of panic. In the middle of all this, Thor finds time to _talk_.

"Not _slain_?"

"The Hydras of Blárhnöggr are ancient and powerful creatures, Thor" he snaps. "Even older than Odin's father's father, linked to the earth and the most pure elemental magic."

Something of the conversation takes him back in time – oh yes, to the thousand and a one explanations he once needed to recite to fill the gaps of a brother's knowledge. Obvious that Thor, now efficient in everything, must discover a last one in the thick of it.

"It's coming here. A very good trajectory you suggested it!"

"She doesn't seem to be accepting suggestions" is Thor's irritated reply. "And the Valkyries must change strategy."

What makes him think it's female, by the gods?

"You won't be able to communicate with them from here, there's a disturbance."

Loki points to the sovereign hill and Thor answers with a curt nod.

This time they alight on the Golden Tower, the magnificent obelisk signaling and defending Asgard's triumphal square. If the hydra reaches it, she will have enough freedom of movement to attack the palace. On the top of the tower they find Fandral and a few _seiðrmaðr_, as pallid as milk. Now that the Válaskjálf's defenses have been strenghtened, they're coordinating the evocation of a magical corridor that will prevent the hydra from deviating from her current path, then will bar her way. The other focal points of the spell (walls and towers and observatories) are already projecting its foundations, but more time is required.

"We must stop it", Loki says. "Or push it back at least."

"You know how to fight her?" Thor asks.

"Do you think she's be here if I did?", he answers, soured by guilt.

Thor nods in a vague way, then frowns.

"It doesn't matter" he states, determined, wielding both Gungnir and Mjölnir. "We have faced worse things. We'll just have to improvise."

A sarcastic little laugh bursts from Loki, but the effect is ruined by the hydra making a palace crumble at barely a block's distance. The war ships surround her like a swarm of flies, and now she seems truly annoyed by their bombardments – but distracted, too.

"Do you have the Casket with you?" Thor asks.

"Always."

"Let's attack her together, then."

Loki's jaw tenses, then he nods.

While their bodies begin coruscating with blue and golden light, they observe the enemy's advance and control their breathing, count the seconds. Soon the Valkyries will have to cease fire to avoid hitting them. The two of them will be the only barrier between the beast and the palace.

The hydra advances without losing impetus. Then, all of a sudden, one of her necks bends and goes down lightning-quick among the buildings of a quarter, reemerging with a terrified horse in the jaws. The head bellows, victorious, and swallows the animal. The other heads draw near, excited, smelling blood.

"Merciful Norns", Fandral whispers when the hydra starts tracking the movements of prey invisible to them. "I don't dare imagine how much meat can be ingested by that titan. And what _kind_."

"We have no intention of finding out" Thor declares, through gritted teeth.

The hydra catches another horse, this time with its rider.

In the sky, the ships disperse in all directions. Loki grabs Gungnir by putting his hand on Thor's and the magic that was coursing between them flows up to the spear's point.

The step forward together. A column of energy erupts from the weapon, flooding the entire tower with light and cutting the air to hit the hydra's chest. The beast roars, necks arching. When the energy beam dies down, Thor lifts Mjölnir and calls lightning to him, directing its many arms on the target.

This she feels. The hydra turns on herself, trying to flee from the assault. While she spits hail against the Valkyries, her colossal tail arches parallel to the earth and lashes towards the Golden Tower.

"Run, run!"

The building's base gets gutted. They have to leave by flight.

In that moment, from Asgard's fortified bulwarks comes the sound of Týr's war horn. Four rays of pure energy explode from the core of their crenellations and converge upon the hydra, so intense they burn the air. It's the Great Defenses, finally ready.

The Hydra screeches, then disappears in the haze of the explosion.

Thor, Loki and the _seiðrmaðr _who aren't busy protect as much of the city as they can. The two kings alight inside the Palace shield.

When the dust cloud clears, however, their hopes get a serious blow.

It didn't work._ It didn't work._

The hydra is still standing. The attacks have broken her armoured shell, leaving deep smoking fissures, but ice scales and spikes are already forming on her body to close the wounds. Faltering for just a few steps, too clever eyes recognizing her pain's sources, she changes direction. By the grace of the Norns, she doesn't approach the Válaskjálf.

Thor looks at Loki and lowers Gungnir. Loki doesn't like his distressed expression. "We must try again."

"And how?" he asks, instinctively responding to his pessimism.

"She won't be able to endure those attacks for long. With Týr's good aim and our weapons, we will strike her down."

That phrase restarts Loki's brain. "Thor. What if we emptied the Treasury?"

Thor furrows his brow, reflecting on it; the situation is serious enough to deserve the use of Asgard's treasures, but he seems reluctant.

"It's just a dragon, damn it."

Loki laughs. "She's not _just_ a dragon."

Thor takes a deep breath and nods. "Yes. And maybe that's the very reason. I don't know, Loki. There is something, in that creature, that makes me want to keep the palace and its secrets well closed to her."

The tempest upon the city is abating.

In that moment, still pressed by the Great Defenses, the hydra spies the Bifröst's clear path. With a roar she reaches it, demolishing or jumping over buildings. Her way to the palace is completely free, now.

Thor exits the dome shield and calls forth more lightning, while Loki weaves all the protective spells he knows, the long process of pronounciation and preparation clashing with the tension trying to break his words.

The hydra slows down, but is unstoppable.

"What do we do?" Thor exclaims, voice lost in the wind.

Loki cannot think.

"Loki, _what do we do_?"

"I don't know!" he shouts back.

But the hydra isn't attacking Asgard's heart. She stops.

Two of her heads scent the air and, one by one, the others follow their example, leaning toward the backcountry.

It's a strange dance, menacing and incomprehensible. It's as if she were listening to stimuli that go beyond the physical and magical, and almost certainly it is so. Regardless of the danger, Loki cannot repress a shiver of excitement at the thought of her primordial capabilities.

Then, something else happens. It seems there is a landslide on the hydra's back.

"What the–" Thor says.

With a leathery sound, the beast opens two salt-crusted wings and spreads them. They're black, almost as wide as the Válaskjálf. The spurs covering them cut the air with a hiss, scratching the buildings which flank the Bifröst and causing a rain of debris.

She takes flight with a push that's impressive for such a lumbering creature, necks straight like arrows. The airflow takes some roofs off and muddles the lowest clouds, clearing part of the sky. Her shadow runs over the city heading east.

"Norns", Thor murmurs.

.

.

II

.

Járnsaxa cannot believe his eyes.

What stands before him, what he sees in Asgard's limpid, irrefutable light is an echo of Yggdrasil's myth, a primeval fragment of creation that persisted only in legend up until now. It's impossible, but, even though he has never seen one before, he does not doubt. It's a six-headed hydra (_Ice, Snow, Hail, Typhoon, Bora, Thaw_).

She's a supernova of power. She tramples on Asgard like a demiurge with the world's simulacra, barely touched by any attack; at least until Thor and Loki-King appear.

In his jealousy, Járnsaxa cannot suppress a surge of admiration. The battle harmony of the two kings takes the breath away. They're two furies of nature. Not even a Hydra of the Blárhnöggr can hope to resist.

And yet, incredibly, she resists. A colossal spire bumps into the base of the Golden Tower and the very tall building shudders, groans, tilts. While its pointed shadow lenghtens upon a boulevard, Loki and the other _seiðrmaðr _of the capital join their forces to slow the collapse down, while Thor covers for them.

A little afterward, with a tremendous push, the hydra takes advantage of the distraction to detach from the ground and take flight.

.

.

III

.

The hydra retreats to one of the outlying hills, at the foot of the mountains standing on lake Aerinmund. The storm follows her, transforming into a dense mist, from which people, transports and animals flee in dribs and drabs.

Thor and Loki go back to the terrace from which they started, near the throne hall, decidedly dirtier and even more exhausted. While they catch their breath they're joined by the first cogs of the Asgardian war machine.

"It's exterminating the Haraldirs' herd on the Folkvangar", one of Týr's men announces, breathless.

"Better the oxen than people" Loki comments.

Thor makes a face, because he knows the Haraldirs won't agree.

"The general proposes to surround the beast with the entirety of our military and bring it down by taking advantage of its position", the man continues.

"It won't be enough", Loki says. "We need a different firing power."

The officer looks at him with a curiosity that is not entirely respectful. Former prince of the kingdom or not, he seems to think, the king of another world has no say in Asgard's strategies. Unsurprisingly, he's from Týr's school of thought. Even if Loki gives no sign of noticing it, Thor feels his own irritation rise.

"Tell Týr to come here" he says, without too much ceremony. "Emergency meeting of the war council."

The officer hesitates for a moment, then salutes and runs toward his transport. Loki exchanges a few words with the three _seiðrmaðr _that have joined him, pointing to various areas of the city.

After a series of more or less urgent messengers, they remain alone. The palace is intact, the city is very damaged but rebuildable, and the dead surprisingly few. The hydra is a distant cloud. Her guttural shrieks blend into the sound of the wind, as glacial as Jötunheim's; beyond the physical damage caused by her passage, the sudden change in temperature is beginning to kill plants and small animals of the city greenery. They must act, fast.

"She's hungry" Loki observes, somber. "She's been asleep for eons. Now that she's free and has vented she want to feed, create a place for herself, recover her strenght."

An ironic laugh escapes Thor. "_Recover_ strenght?"

Loki answers with a similar smile.

"The ice is expanding and stabilizing. She's creating a comfortable lair."

Thor's visage hardens. "We must not allow her."

"Exactly what I was thinking." A beat, and then: "If you rather not use the Treasure, maybe there's an alternative."

"What alternative?"

Loki turns to him, gyrates his wrists at waist height and between his hands the Casket of Ancient Winter materializes. Under the pulsating light of its core, Loki's face looks covered in frost.

"They say that the hydrae of the Blárhnöggr were born from Ymir's legs when his arms birthed his first son and first daughter*. They also say that the Casket was created shortly after, by his breath. Little stories aside, if it really is as ancient as them, perhaps it will be capable of killing that beast... or stopping her, if nothing else."

Thor isn't sure he approves of that plan. "How close should you be?"

"At least on the lake's shore. Without interference."

He shakes his head. "It's too dangerous. If it doesn't work–"

"I will flee posthaste" Loki interjects, with a sharp smile. "Don't forget I already fought her once."

Remembering that gives Thor a pang of anguish. It happened when they hadn't been talking to each other for weeks; Loki needed him and they weren't talking.

"Just what happened on Jötunheim?"

"I will tell you later. Now there is no time."

.

When they reach the lake, however, they get an awful surprise. The passage is closed. Where just a little before one of Asgard's most beautiful hills stood, now there is a small glacier, crystalline and impenetrable. Beneath the surface the hydra's spires can be glimpsed; she finally seems worn out by the fight, by Asgard's heat, and Thor has no difficulty believing it because, despite her immense power, that beast has traversed the dark space separating the worlds. Even a colossus' energies wane, sooner or later.

"Heimdall, can you contain her?", he asks.

Loki looks at him and understands. "Wait."

While a shield's beam is projected from the distant Observatory, he calls for the Casket again and opens it. The energy emanating from it pours out, sparkling, onto the glacier, descending and sliding under the earth's surface, beyond rocks, roots and aquifers. When it is closed like a sphere Loki closed the Casket. Hemdall's shield lies on his, covering the blue with gold, and suddenly the icy winds stop blowing.

Slowly, the sky brightens, the temperature rises. It almost seems like nature is breathing in relief.

Thor has no qualms about making himself heard, that's for sure.

"Wait before you cry victory", Loki comments. "We still have one live hydra to confront and little time to decide how. This is a mere truce."

"Right. I will send all _seiðrmaðr _to lay more barriers. Until we have a solution, it must not get out of there."

"Pray the barrier holds better than the one we created on Jötunheim."

Thor nods, exhausted. He remains to stare at the huge problem that has fallen into his hands, then offers Loki a hand and raises Mjölnir.

"No, thanks. I'm coming back on my own."

Right... the hydra isn't the only problem he has to solve.

.

.

IV

.

Now that disaster has been averted, at least in the immediate future, Loki has time to absorb everything. Asgard could have been razed to the ground, and still could be. He doesn't know what a hydra at the peak of its power is capable of, but he's got an idea. After a sleepless night, the vigorous fight and the creation of the shield, he feels his knees buckle.

To avoid giving up his dignity, he hides among the columns embellishing Sökkvabekkr's open passage and leans on a supporting pillar, in the middle of the decorative architecture. He closes his eyes, breathing deeply against the pressure of a migraine. The heat is worsening it; eventually, he gives up and goes back to his Asgardian appearance, conjuring on himself a green tunic and trousers. He has no time to waste: foreign king or not, Asgard needs him.

But the area is peaceful and cool and he stays more than he should. It's there that Thor tracks him down, proving once again that his intuition has no equal. He hasn't got Gungnir with him – must have left it inside the Válaskjálf's after decongesting the first phases of the state of emergency.

"How are you doing?" he asks, blue eyes running over Loki's face.

Loki rubs the last remnants of golden paint from his forehead, evasive. "I should look for our mother. See if she's alright."

"She's well. She's with the head-_seiðrmaðr_... they have all regressed to schoolboys, under her supervision." A crooked smile.

"Please tell she doesn't want to fight!"

It's fright that makes him curt – the still-fresh shock of danger. Thor doesn't pay attention to it.

"Now, do you want to explain what happened? Why is that beast here?"

There is little to explain, in the end. The suspicious rumors, the alarm in the Gastropnir, the trolls and all of a sudden a secret of the old Jötunheim awakening, leaving the darkness that had erased it from collective memory.

"We believed we had put her to sleep again" Loki concludes, shoulders drooping under the feather cloak. "She hadn't managed to free herself from the mountain's weight, because the glacier had grown in the last millennia, and it was possible to attack her in triangulation. And yet..."

And yet, somehow, they failed. Unable to move the colossal weight of the glacier above, the hydra dug, and dug, taking advantage of who-knows-what cracks and magic currents until she opened a breach on the galaxy's darkest spaces.

"There were signs of her arrival."

Thor's face brightens with understanding. "The auroras. The cold."

"Not only. Up until this morning, strong interferences through Yggdrasil's space prevented any kind of interdimensional travel. It's the reason why", Loki hesitates, "I didn't go back to Jötunheim. It was impossible."

Thor frowns, then seems absorbed by other considerations. Eventually a half-laugh escapes him, soon transformed into his magnificent, chest-deep laughter. It's the sound Loki loves above any other.

"A life spent hunting monsters of all kinds, shapes and sizes" Thor says, laying a hand between his shoulder and neck, hold tightening to draw him closer. "Only you could find a new one, Loki, and the most gigantic of all."

"It wasn't intentional" it's his dazed protest.

"I didn't say the contrary" Thor says, touching Loki's left cheek with a thumb. "This makes it even more exceptional."

Loki exhales through his teeeth; Thor touches him with more care.

"You're wounded... a splint?"

"It's just a scratch."

Loki is tired, tense, he knows an infinite number of things still need his attention, but he cannot help himself. He keeps on staring at Thor, who touches him with love, tousled and wonderful under the new sunlight. One finger presses on Loki's cut cheek to stop the bleeding; then Thor is kissing him with ardor. Loki closes his eyes and slides an arm behind his neck, back colliding with the pillar.

Yes, this. This. How he missed it. How much–

Thor's fingers bite into his hip. In a flash Loki sees the Line again, their chambers, his gaze. He turns his head away.

"No."

"Loki?"

"I'm still angry with you."

Thor hesitates, unbalanced, then snorts a laugh. "_You_ are angry with _me_?"

In that very moment someone exits the wing connecting the Sökvabekkr to the rest of the palace, sees them and moves closer with breathless circumspection. Oh, of all the bothers–

"The hydra" Járnsaxa begins, dishevelled to perfection. "I looked for you everywhere to tell you, Thor–I think I know how–"

"Go away", says Loki.

The intruder addresses Thor who, thanks the Norns, dismisses him.

"Later, please."

Járnsaxa answers with a suitable smile, bows and walks away, throwing them a few looks.

.

Loki observes Jàrnsaxa's retreat and then Thor, then Járnsaxa again, disdainful.

"I didn't think you would shoo him away. I thought you'd gotten used to symbiosis with that crab louse."

Thor grits his teeth, sighing.

"He's rational and clever. I believe I could even make him Asgard's queen."

"What a good deal you'd make" Loki says, full of sarcasm. "And some nerve you've got to tell me this, after yesterday's proposal."

His face twitches, as it does when words he did not want to say slip from his mouth. Oh, this isn't the moment, Thor has no energies to start this discussion all over again: he's bruised and sweaty and dirty with blood, soil, plaster, dragon spit; he just wants to wash and shut himself in intimity with the war council. But at this point he knows that if he'll win, he'll win thanks to pure resistance. Drop erodes stone, they say.

With a critical eye on the city, where the first rescue teams are moving, he observes: "Mine isn't the only proposal I remember."

Loki inhales. "Never mind that."

"Why ever?"

"I won't talk about it here."

"That's not on the negotiating table anymore? Or are you just scared to concede that last point?" Loki's green eyes dilate and pierce him. "Is it, or is it not?"

"How dare you belittle a sacred ceremony–"

"How dare you commodify it? How dare you _blackmail me with the promise of your love_?" Thor retorts, snout to snout with him.

Enough enough enough.

"I never blackmailed you!"

"And you get offended if I consider others–"

"_Of course_."

"–when you've done nothing but the same in the last months!"

"I've done nothing of the sort!"

"Ah, didn't you?" Thor exclaims, with a smile that is more alike to feral grimace. "What a liar. You deny, always deny, why should I believe you?"

"Because this is not what I want for you!", Loki hisses.

Thor combs his hands through his own hair. He will become grey way before his father, by now it is a certainty.

"And what do you want, then?" he asks, desperate.

"You know that very well."

"No, I don't know, Loki. You tell me. I offered you myself, my kingdom, my progeny–"

He laughs. "How many times must I explain?"

"I'm starting to believe they're actually all excuses."

.

Loki feels himself freeze, and it's never been a good sensation for him. "Excuses for what?"

"To get rid of me, completing your revenge with years of uncertainty and torment." Thor stops staring at him and breathing becomes less painful. "I know you, Loki. I've never underestimated your ability to keep a grudge."

This is the worst blow, because in these centuries Loki has given him everything – his trust, his love and forgiveness and penance. There is no veil he has not torn away.

"You're unjust", he says.

"Am I?" Thor asks.

Too long a silence.

Thor sighs, advancing and retreating with the indecision of someone who doesn't know if he should stay, but wants to. In the end, he stays.

"What is that you want for me, Loki?"

Loki tightens his fists. "Peace. A kingdom of peace and prosperity, faithful allies."

"This is collateral."

"Very nice words, in a king's mouth!"

"Tell me what would change compared to now."

"If you need to ask that, you're not the great sovereign you think you are. Do you believe that they'd be happy, in Asgard, to even see me on your throne? Do you think that they'll be happy, in _Jötunheim_, to see you on _my_ throne?"

"We're already consorts, de facto. Everyone knows that."

"To know and to approve are two different matters." Loki grimaces. "They're hoping it lasts only a short time. But if we completed that bond with children–"

"Stop making excuses. What about my grandfather, then? What about Bestla – one like you, Loki, like _you_."

"And see how well that ended. Peace and prosperity for all the worlds."

Thor stares at him, piercing. "Politics, politics, politics" he says. "What will you do when Jötunheim's families push to have you respect tradition? Will you take a _hrimthurs _as a Second Consort?"

Loki glares at him. Oh, such idiocy.

"Never that."

"Really?"

"What use would I have for a _hrimthurs_, except as a way to be split in two when he tried to fuck me?"

Something of that vulgarity seems to lessen Thor's frustration, and he arches his eyebrows.

"Exactly" says Loki, sour.

"...And so? What do you _really_ want for me?"

Loki clenches his jaw, his fists, his eyes.

"What?"

He lowers his head. He cannot but tell the truth, in the end. No one ever knew how to take the truth from like Thor does, because there is nothing Loki desires more than his esteem.

_"Me_."

The wind blows through the airy columns of the courtyard, swallowing any answer. Loki lifts his chin.

"Me, forever, at any cost. And to Hel everyone else."

Thor stares at him, silent. Loki feels immensely stupid. He has ruined everything.

.

It is what he knew and wanted to hear him admit, and Thor's spirit rejoices. But he doesn't show it. Victory isn't his yet.

"If it is so" he says, «if it is so, _why_ do you hesitate? How can you not be grateful for the good fortune we were granted–to have children of _our own_–"

"Yes, ones _I_ would have to birth!" Loki snarls, baring his teeth and violently pointing a finger at himself.

Slowly, Thor lays a palm on his fist and lowers it; Loki stares at him like an animal on the verge of attacking, and it has been a long, long time since Thor saw him so vulnerable.

"I would never lessen your sacrifice, Loki.» The green eyes open wide. "And I would make it so that no one could try."

"You cannot control your subjects' minds, Thor. You couldn't control mine either, for that matter. I was raised as a _prince_! I am a shapeshifter who feels a man in a wolf's skin, in a falcon's feathers and in a Jötun body. I cannot even consider the idea of going around ruling with a belly as swollen as a baker's wife's!"

When he's done his breath is laboured.

"Then I will bear them" Thor says.

Whatever answer Loki was expecting, it wasn't this one. He stares at him as if he were raving.

"_What_?"

"I will bear them myself" Thor repeats, the idea's merits growing with every passing second. "You and our mother are the best _seiðrmaðr _of the millennium. You will find a way, and I will be Asgard's queen for the necessary time."

Loki gawks.

"You are completely insane" he says when he finds his voice. A disbelieving smile stretches the curve of his mouth, but the surprise is still too great. "You're serious... and you're barking mad. Do you realize what you just said? Do you know what it would mean to have the Alfather disappear–"

"I certainly would not disappear."

"Oh yes, you would guarantee the safety of the nine kingdoms by bouncing everywhere."

A sound of sirens takes them back to reality. The afternoon light lengthens the columns' shadows, reminding them that time runs fast and there is much to be done, and people to comfort, on top of a hydra to vanquish.

"Think about it" Thor says, moving to leave the sunny courtyard.

Loki gazes at him in silence, but his expression has changed. As if the sense of the last thing Thor said had just reached him. He stares as if seeing him for the first time, and this, too, is an expression he hadn't shown Thor in a long time. Then he looks away.

"I will go to Jötunheim to gather expert fighters", he says. "I will be back tonight, if there are no other emergencies. About the rest, we'll talk at a later time."

It's something, at least.

.

.

V

.

Nobody has noticed his absence.

Before leaving Jötunheim Loki had suspended all formal obligations, not only because he counted on celebrating the holiday in Asgard, but also because it's custom to pause the proceedings of the _res publica_ in the days preceding the Winter Solstice.

The holiday falls at the end of the week. During that very long night the Casket will reach the pinnacle of its power, and so will Jötunheim, which will renew its strenght for the upcoming year. Utgarð and the kingdom are preparing for the celebrations, planning the ceremonies, creating ice gardens for the open spaces and sculptures, low-reliefs, little columns and spires and thin aerial crownings for the buildings. On the Solstice, the Casket's power will light them all, innervating them with inner light like it usually does with the heart of the royal palace.

The Jötnar are hard at work. So nobody had time to notice Loki's short absence, nor time to be aware of his return – nobody except one person. Angantýr intercepts him in a secondary passage of the palace, when Loki's mind is already on the discourse he will have to give to convince the generals that fighting a hydra is a necessity.

When he finds no trace of the Line his expression, already suspicious, becomes tragic.

"No melodrama" Loki orders.

For all his competent haughtiness, Angantýr can be a true whiner when things don't go 'in accordance to good sense'.

"My King..."

"There were unforeseen difficulties, that's all." Loki passes him by, not wasting breath on niceties. But he cannot resist temptation and turns to looks at him, smile showing too many teeth. "I am sure even you will think the delay justified."

.

The meeting with the available generals goes the only way it could go: a mixed welcome between thirst for glory, worry and refusal. The emergency broke out in not very an opportune moment, Loki knows it well; except unavoidable wars, the Jötnar do not like fighting during the Winter Solstice's week. And here it's a matter of confronting an extraordinary foe to help Asgard. Not everyone has forgotten the past: Jötnar whose existences Odin destroyed are still alive, and would now destroy that of his son and 'his whore'. Loki tried to remedy to the pain, and crushed rebellion when that wasn't possible. His is not a compassionate throne. In a way or another, it always ends victorious. And today Thor _will_ have his fighters.

Loki returns the Casket to its plinth, located at the top of the palace, and while the heart of the planet pulsates he turns to observe Utgarð's plain, framed by pale blue spires.

Jötunheim's seven moons are small and ringed with craters. During the night, they reflect the yellow light of a sun that too often disappears behind blizzards. In that moment they're riding the clear horizon, suspended over the mountains, and look like horsemen in flight by lantern-light.

They remind him of Thor.

Loki is king and master of Winter, the Heart of the Casket. With intuition and foresight he saved Jötunheim from ruin, that very ruin that he would have once bestowed without hesitation. He did so paying the price of his mistakes; he did so discovering, once an ancient war's demonization had been exposed, the qualities of the land to which he was born, and deserving the respect of the greater part of his subjects.

Loki does his duty with proud dedication, because he's not the man he was. Experience has given him a new perspective.

But he does not forget how he came to have so much and, if in the past this would have provoked resentment in him, now he can only accept the truth. Without Thor, his kingdom is grey. Thor can enliven Jötunheim like he enlivened Loki's heart; he's the safe harbour he needs, the only one who understands.

And truth Loki told at the Sökkvabekkr. What he wants for Thor it's everything he wants for himself – for them to belong to each other until the end of their days, without compromise. It remains to be seen if he will have the courage to prove it.

Thor's ridiculous proposition (oh, such _nonsense_) doesn't lessen his fears. The problem goes way beyond the material side. He's terrified at the idea of being responsible for the wellness and psychophysical growth of creatures not yet capable of discerning right from wrong.

And moreover... moreover, he never forgot the vision revealed to him by the Norns' Sleep. That spell, created to reveal the future, opened instead the doors to a past trascending eras and incarnations, showing what he'd been, what Thor had been, their history; their horrible destiny, of which echoes remain in the legends written by Álfheim and Midgard's bards, surely gifted with the Sight.

He has never forgotten that. Since then, he's been living in fear of seeing it all repeat. Centuries ago, understanding the nature of the visions, he was on the verge of going away to protect Thor and Frigga from danger. But then he let himself be convinced to stay, because he desired what Thor offered too much, and because he was weak. He will always be, when it comes to Thor. He may rebel, antagonize him, fight him, belittle him in thoughts and words... but resentment will never surpass love. Never.

And even if he has very tangible proof of the danger, now... his desire is stronger than fear. The love that changed him forever spurs him to persevere.

There is only one thing he must find out. A person he must see, before deciding.

It will also be a chance to make rightful complaints.

.

.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Widi: Víðarr's palace, where the most terrible weapons were forged. About Ymir: not comic canon but Norse mythology; the Casket's birth is my invention though: in the comics it was created by Asgardians by containing part of Ymir.


	14. INTERLUDE - Diplomatic visits

**Notes:** What? Six months of silence, and then two chapters in a week?!  
Haha, I know, I'm surprised myself. It's just a short interlude, but I was very energized by all your lovely comments and translated it in a blink :D didn't want to make you wait. I love hearing from you, my lovely readers! It seems that Loki hasn't been _completely_ honest with himself, and it shows. Have I said that I love Gerd?

* * *

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

.

.

INTERLUDE

**Diplomatic visits**

.

.

Gerð is sitting at her vanity table, among pillows of feathers and velvet, legs propped up on a pouf (Valhalla for her swollen feet). Her time is near. A dark room and scented candles still relax her, but a subterranean tension she knows well is coursing through her body. It could be days just like mere hours before labour.

She puts the brush down, tired. If that idiot Járnsaxa were here he could see about her hair, and her shoulders, and the back that's killing her. Instead, he has abandoned her to pursue a pair of Asgardian legs, leaving her with anxious healers and way too-relaxed a husband. And to cap the affront, Gerð doesn't even know what the wretch is doing. Járnsaxa hasn't contacted her since, a rare event when he's out on _diplomatic_ visits, and she is beginning to suspect that he's locked inside Thor Odinson's chambers, busy breaking the bed with him; or six feet under, while an unaware Thor breaks the bed with the perpetrator.

Oh, backaches always make her vulgar. It doesn't matter – it's Járnsaxa's fault anyway.

She grabs a stupid can of cream from the shelf, disturbing vials and jewels, then lifts her eyes to the mirror. The can falls through her fingers.

There are two red eyes behind her.

Slowly, Loki Laufeyson's silhouette emerges from the room's shadows, cloak lapping at the darkness. Gerð parts her lips, hands on her belly. There is only one thought in her head, now. Her child. Her child, vulnerable inside her body.

"I believed there was friendship between us", the apparition whispers.

"...There is."

"Then why did you let that intriguer loose? Why haven't you dragged him back here? He will get strange ideas." While an ice shell grows forth from Gerð's skin, Loki-King comes forward and leans over her shoulder, still staring at her in the mirror. Their breath condenses in azure puffs. "He will believe Asgard to be a safe place."

"Don't you dare touch me."

Loki smiles and strokes her cheek with the back of his left hand.

"Bring him back here and keep him on a short leash. He's not welcome anymore. Whatever you two are plotting, you will not win."

Gerð would insult him, hit him, because if he is a king, she is a queen. He cannot treat her so, and _in her own home_. But she has her heart in the throat, an incomplete armour and still some hope of solving the situation in a civil way.

"We're not plotting anything" she says, donning all the composure she's capable of. "Every thing Járnsaxa does, he does of his own will, for his own pleasure and now against my desires."

"And yet a little bird told me that you are about to adopt a prince."

Gerð's brain grinds to a halt. _What?_

"_What_?"

"Maybe you're already thinking about replacing this one?"

One of Loki's sharp fingers lowers and points down, to her stomach.

Gerð's pupils dilate and from her throat comes the guttural hiss that only the Jötnar are capable of producing. While the room resonates with hidden magic, created to respond to her emotions, ice spurs erupt from her back. She twists her torso and transforms her fingers into blades, cutting the air.

Loki avoids them without batting an eye, with a superior economy of movement. Gerð wishes she could jump to her feet, but in this condition she's not able to do so. She ends up flailing in the most disgraceful way, searching the chair for a hold that will allow her to lever and stand up.

She bares her teeth, sharpened by ice. "I'm not defenseless. _Mind what you do!_"

"How scary."

"You're making a mistake. Whatever Járnsaxa told you, he lied!"

And this is difficult to admit, difficult to accept – that Járn might have been so selfish and careless to shield himself with her, especially when she is so vulnerable.

Loki takes advantage of the brief distraction and slides a hand into her hair, holding her head still. His gaze roves over her in a strange way.

"I find very difficult to believe it."

"I don't want to adopt him, damnit! Why would I? I already have two sons.»

Then Gerð pushes her spur-bristling shoulder back. They separate with a jerk and face each other, she panting and armed to the teeth, he calm but grim, enveloped by a light halo of _seiðr_.

"If Thor Alfather dances no more to the sound of your pipe, the fault is yours, Laufeyson" Gerð says, spiteful. "And perhaps you know it. Otherwise you'd be there to dominate the situation and not here, venting like a common cuckold."

The mirror behind her explodes. Loki's visage is a mask once again.

"I didn't throw away anything. Thor is still mine."

Gerð is expecting something more, something terrible – and where is everyone, where are the guards and her ladies-in-waiting, Freyr– _seiðr _or not the alarms should have been triggered, the noise–

"Don't do it", she growls. "Don't do it, Laufeyson."

But he is not moving anymore. He's still staring at Gerð's belly, and some expression darts on his face. One of his arms twitches, as if he wanted to touch himself on the same spot. Then, from his mouth comes that question.

"How is it?"

Gerð narrows her eyes. "How is what?"

"...To birth a child."

For a moment Gerð doesn't know what to think. Is this a trap? Does he want to make her talk, to twist every phrase against her afterwards? Will he promise an even greater pain, an useless pain because her child will not be born? In another age and other circumstances, she would be certain of it.

But Loki came back to Asgard, to Thor. And there's that hesitation, that expression that not even his experience as a liar can hide. Gerð observes him with greater attention and what before was unconscious awareness surfaces. Loki has slightly-bright eyes, lustrous hair, radiant skin... a posture that...

Oh.

When she understands she's even more disconcerted. It's been so long without him showing those sings that she'd been convinced, somehow, that it would never happen. But now it's obvious that it was only a matter of time. Gerð's alarm abates. Slowly, she straightens.

This explains many things – even , maybe, the true reason for Loki's visit. Except his innate antipathy.

"It's the most natural thing in the world" she says, cautious.

His answer is a look of disdainful scepticism mixed with fascination.

_Ý_ _mir's balls._ He truly is considering–ah, of course he is. In all honesty, she would let herself be persuaded by Odinson too. And even if the thought of Laufeyson reproducing gives her the creeps, if it's reassurances he came to seek she will be very happy to give them, just to see him go away. The part of her mind not busy quivering with rage feels vainly flattered, and a bit intimidated as well. Loki's pride is renown, and he must have swallowed quite a lot to come here with that ulterior motive.

"You are not a man" Gerð says, testing the waters. Is this the problem? He would follow his instinct, but upbringing and identity are stopping him? "You are hermaphrodite, like me. I'm surprised that a shapeshifter of your talent finds this fluidity disturbing."

"Being a shapeshifter is a very different ability, in principle and application" he shots back, brusque.

Gerð inclines her head, conceding the point.

"I cannot say I know it." She lays her hands on her belly. "But your identity's naturalness doesn't change: you will be _geta _and you will be _béra_; your body will feel both needs. If you can accept advice from _me_, it's useless deluding yourself. Make this notion yours and save yourself from much suffering."

Loki gives her a scornful smile. "It's glaringly obvious you don't know the word 'conditioning'."

"If you follow your instinct, you'll be happy. It's how I feel every time I see Fjolnir."

The smile falls away from his face. He looks away.

"Happy" he repeats. A flat laugh. "You sound almost sincere."

Gerð's smile is cutting. "I could surprise you, Loki-King."

But it seems it will have to wait for another day. In a blaze of _seiðr_, Loki disappears.

Such grace.

"Freyr" Gerð screeches. «_Freyyr_!»

.

.

oooooooooooooooooooo

Don't expect the next chapter so soon, though :-P it's way longer!


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